Time Out of Mind
by Tim Radley
Summary: What happens when you can't even remember your name? This story occurs during the missing two years from the season 2 finale, "The Telling" and concerns what happens to Sydney during that time.
1. Memories in a Box

Title: Time out of Mind.

Author: Tim Radley.

Email: trad50@yahoo.co.uk.

Rating: PG-13.

Spoilers/Timeline: S2/S2.22 "The Telling".

Disclaimer: "Alias" and all the characters taken from the show are copyright J.J. Abrams and Bad Robot Productions.

Summary: What do you do when you can't even remember your name? The story occurs during the missing two years from the season 2 finale "The Telling" and solely concerns what happens to Sydney during that period. It will contain spoilers for anyone who has not yet seen the whole of season two.

1. Memories in a Box

The woman swayed back out of range as the baton swung past, scarcely an inch away from her face. Without pausing she dropped low, sweeping her legs round violently, aiming for the back of her masked assailant's knees.

He managed to evade, hopping over her legs and landing slightly awkwardly, stumbling two or three steps back from her. There was no time to press her temporary advantage home though. In the periphery of her vision she caught the motion of another baton swinging towards the back of her skull.

This time she swayed forward, the graceful economy of her movements breathtaking. The wind of the baton's passage stirred her ponytail, but it made no more contact than that. As it slammed loudly against the mat she stamped back on it, ripping it free of its wielder's grasp. Instantaneously her other foot snapped up and caught the man plumb in the throat. He collapsed backward, making a weak gargling noise.

Snatching up the fallen baton, she managed to parry the attack of a third opponent, retreating rapidly as he rained in blow after blow.

He dwarfed her – almost a head taller than her 5ft 9, and maybe double her weight. Despite that disadvantage she seemed able to hold her own against him easily enough after the initial storm of his assault was weathered. They circled each other warily. He feinted a lunge, but she wasn't taken in. A lightning-fast riposte cracked across the back of his knuckles, drawing a startled high-pitched yelp.

Stung into action, he launched a massive overhand chop at her head, but she caught it with apparent ease. There was an improbable amount of strength in her wirily slender frame. As he tried to force his baton down towards her head using his greater weight and leverage, she drove a knee up between his legs.

He managed to half twist aside, and thus preserve any future hopes of fatherhood he might have had. Even so the impact was enough to leave him doubled up and groaning in pain.

The first assailant had made his way silently round her blindside, and, with her apparently oblivious to his presence, was poised to bring his baton down across her back. Until, that was, she executed a swift reverse underarm thrust, catching him in the breadbasket with the tip of her own baton. He doubled over, the breath whooshing out of his lungs. A roundhouse kick executed with balletic grace and precision took him in the side of the head. He went down heavily and showed no signs of getting up again.

Her last remaining foe tried to take advantage of her momentary distraction, though he was still hampered by being badly winded. She sidestepped his rush neatly, bringing the baton down across the back of his wrist with a bone-cracking retort. Reversing the stroke caught him in the jaw, knocking his gum-shield out in a spray of blood and saliva. He was unconscious before he hit the floor.

She turned around slowly, movements prowling – catlike. Everything was suddenly still and quiet. The first man she had downed made a rasping, coughing noise – tried to get up. He froze as she planted a foot lightly across his throat. As she looked down at him her hazel-green eyes were hard. 

He spread his hands wide hastily. "I yield. I yield."

A nod. She stepped away. Her breath was coming quickly, wisps of dark brown hair stuck to the side of her face with sweat. She cast her baton aside and stepped over her three abused sparring partners. Her knuckles were raw and abraded – bloody and bruised.

Then she looked up at a row of three dazzling lights near the training gym's ceiling. There was no one to see there, but she knew she was being watched. She was always being watched. After a moment's pause she spoke calmly and clearly in Russian: "Tell Tchéky that I am ready."

* * *

"So Svetlana." Tchéky Romatsev ran a broad hand across the back of a thick leather bound folder. A signet ring on his index finger flashed in the candlelight and there was a flesh-coloured elastoplast fixed across the webbing between his thumb and forefinger. "You have been given the all clear to resume active duty."

She nodded, expression cool. "You have read the report, yes?"

The smile that twitched across Tchéky's lips and touched his eyes seemed slightly sad. He was a handsome man, perhaps late thirties to early forties, or perhaps older still – it was that kind of face; difficult to be sure. Dark blonde stubble gleamed golden on his broad jaw – the only thing about him that wasn't absolutely immaculate. "Oh yes, I have most certainly read the report. Marksmanship. Unarmed combat. Infiltration. Spatial awareness. Linguistics." A slightly awed shake of his head. "Off the charts. The highest scores we've ever recorded in thirty years operation."

"But then, I do have an unfair advantage, don't I?" In the candlelight she was luminously beautiful, dark hair piled atop head and spilling in coils down either side of her face, the strong angles of her cheekbones drawn in patterns of light and shadow. The dark blue dress she wore left her shoulders bare, exposed skin like creamy liquid gold. Only her grazed knuckles gave any connection to the woman from earlier in the gym. She glanced out of the restaurant's window at St. Petersburg's nightlit streets. "I've done all of these tests before. Seven years of field experience, or so I'm told. Even if my mind refuses to remember any of it, my body has not forgotten."

"You still remember nothing then?" he asked softly – almost tenderly.

Svetlana shook her head. "Nothing at all before . . . before the accident." A gaping, echoing void with not a single shaft of light to illuminate it. "The doctors say I might never remember."

"Or that it might all come back to you in a day, or a week, or a month. Hope Svetlana. There are no hard and fast rules on this." He smiled, but she didn't return it.

"I can't put my life on hold waiting for something that might never happen. And I hardly think you and your superiors have invested so much time and effort in my recovery just for that eventuality either."

"We care about you, Svetlana. Besides, you are a decorated hero, and we like to pretend we treat our heroes well." There was a wry, slightly cynical twist of the lips as he said this. He took a sip from his wine glass to cover it.

She shook her head sharply. "I need to be doing something Tchéky. Something more than sitting around and listening to the emptiness inside my head. Like this I think I'm going to go mad."

After a period of silence between them he reached across the table and lightly traced a fingertip across the back of her injured knuckles. "You're working yourself too hard. You always worked yourself too hard." He sighed softly to himself. "Ah, my little Irina."

Svetlana's face seemed to freeze over. "What did you just say?"

"Svetlana?"

"You called me Irina. 'My little Irina'" Her eyes had gone hard with suspicion. "My name is Svetlana, isn't it? That is what everybody tells me, though it could be anything, couldn't it, for all I know. Why did you call me Irina?"

"I'm sorry." He paused, briefly looking down at the table. "I didn't mean to say that. When you've known someone for a long time occasionally things slip out by accident . . .. The first time I met you Svet, you were working deep undercover inside a Moscow Mafia cell. The alias you were using at the time was Irina. You were so fierce and so beautiful. _Are_ so beautiful. I fell in love with you under the name of Irina. Part of me will always think of you as you were back then. My little Irina."

She stared at him, slightly wide eyed. "What are you saying? We were lovers once?"

He grimaced – looked angry with himself. "I shouldn't have said anything.  It was over a long time ago, and for you at least I think it was never really serious to begin with. You know very well that fraternisation among fellow agents is frowned upon." A sigh. "Anyway, I went away for a couple of years on assignment. When I came back you were married."

"And you were going to tell me this when, Tchéky?" She sounded angry. "Four months you've had, and nothing. I _need_ to know these things if I'm going to recover. I need people I can trust. This is my life you're hiding from me."

He gave a snorting half laugh. "I'm sorry. But . . . what does it look like, me telling you this? It was over long ago, and you have no way of verifying if anything I've just said is even true. To me . . . to me, it just seemed that it would look like I was taking advantage of your condition. Trying to rekindle something that perhaps never was. What kind of arsehole would that make me?"

"I still need you to tell me these things," she insisted. "I need to know everything. Every little detail. I am not a china doll to be wrapped in cotton wool and protected from the world around me."

His gaze dropped again. "I know this difficult for you Svetlana. Difficult like nothing I can begin to imagine. But it is difficult for us too. Your friends – the people who care about you – looking into your eyes, and seeing you look back at them through the eyes of a stranger."

Her expression softened slightly, and she reached across the table, lightly touching the back of his hands. "I'm sorry Tchéky. I know you're trying your best."

His fingers closed over hers, and for a time they simple looked at each other. Abruptly Tchéky leaned forward – kissed her gently on the lips.

Svetlana froze instinctively at the contact – didn't respond. Tchéky withdrew hurriedly, sitting back hard in his chair. He coughed – ran a hand over his face, looking stricken with embarrassment. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. Christ, I'm an idiot. Forgive me?"

After a moment she nodded. Her eyes were unreadable.

He coughed again. "Well, anyway. Er . . . the business at hand. If you're absolutely sure you feel ready Svetlana, I'm willing to endorse the findings of the report to the director."

"I'm ready."

"Then you're back in. It'll probably be a few days before you get an assignment. I should warn you that they won't break you in gently. You'll be thrown straight back in at the deep end."

She just nodded. "That's exactly what I expect. Exactly what I want. I'm tired of being useless."

He smiled slightly. "We'll even reinstate your old code name."

She just looked at him.

"Your code name is Mountaineer."

* * *

Tchéky sat on his own in the back of a limo, being driven at speed through St. Petersburg's streets. The flickering patterns of the streetlights that periodically lit up his face made his expression look strange and hard; immobile.

His cell phone rang. After a moment's pause he retrieved it from the inside pocket of his jacket and answered brusquely. "Romatsev."

"It went well I trust." The voice on the other end of the line was distorted and artificial. It was impossible to determine anything about the speaker from it, even if they were male or female.

"It went well," Tchéky confirmed heavily. "She practically demanded to be allowed to resume field work."

"I said this strategy would work best did I not? Let her believe that she chooses her own path rather than trying to force her in the direction we want."

"You did," Tchéky agreed.

"She is so beautiful, don't you think?" The voice continued. "Looks so much like her mother did at that age, but somehow even more compelling. More special. Something about her spirit I think – a unique strength and purity that has managed to remain untainted despite everything she has undergone." 

Tchéky's eyes narrowed as he listened to the voice, lips compressing into a tight line. 

"So believe me, Tchéky, I understand absolutely why you are trying what you tried to start at the restaurant. And it was done with passable cleverness, I'll grant. In time she might even come to take the bait you laid if you continue to play it skilfully."

"I . . .. What are you talking about?" There was suddenly a flicker of unease in Tchéky's eyes.

"You don't think there is anything you can do that I cannot find out about? Not now, after all we have been through."

"I would not hide anything from you."

"Oh, we all try to hide. It is our nature. But remember this. She is not for you. She is to serve a purpose that was written over five hundred years ago. And if you so much as lay a finger on her without my express permission I will kill you . . .. _Eventually_, I will kill you."

Tchéky swallowed. "I understand."

"Good. Now, Chebakov." There was a click and the line went dead.

After a moment Tchéky's face twisted angrily. He hurled the cell phone against the partition separating him from the driver. It hit so hard that it flew apart into fragments.

* * *

Svetlana sat alone in her room – her cell. That was what it was, she thought, for all the fact that the door stood unlocked and she could apparently leave at any time she wanted.

She lay back and let out a soft breath. No, it was her own head that was the real cell – a dismal oubliette in which she'd been left to rot. No way out, and the harder she tried to escape the worse she became trapped.

Tears gleamed in the corners of her eyes, unshed, and she wiped them away angrily. No she would not cry. Not now. Not again.

Gritting her teeth, she rolled over, reaching across to flick on the bedside lamp. Then she pulled out the shoebox from its place beneath the bed. It had become a ritual. Something she did each night before she slept, trying in vain to remember; to uncover some scrap of her past, however small and insignificant.

She took out the first photo. Her parents. They might as well have been strangers. She stared at their faces, but no hint of recognition was triggered. Her father's arm was draped around her mother's shoulder, and the camera had captured a look of adoration on his face that even thirty years hadn't been able to dilute. _You loved her, didn't you? But I don't know who you are, and I don't know who she is._

_Vitali Borushka. Natalya Borushka._ They were both dead now of course. Her mother when she was six years old, killed in a car crash, and her father just a year ago – a heavy smoker finally succumbing to the ravages of lung cancer. Facts that must have had a profound effect in shaping her, she knew. But now they weren't able to trigger even the slightest emotion in her. She had more connection to characters in bad daytime soaps.

The next photo was her, aged three years old. She stared at it.

_You're dead too, aren't you?_ Unconsciously she raised a hand to her temple and the small, seemingly insignificant scar there. _The bullet killed you, didn't it? And all it left behind is this shell. This pathetic empty shell._

She flicked mechanically through the rest of the photos. Her life.

There were more of her parents. Herself as a girl, growing up. With her mother's death and her father's refusal to remarry she had been an only child.

Class photos. Her graduating from university, surrounded by friends she didn't recognise. Then her in dress uniform, hair much shorter than it was now. Two years of military service, before being recruited into a covert branch of the SVA. Like everything else it might never have happened.

She stopped and lingered over the next photo. A handsome man in military uniform. Captain Daniel Armanov. Her husband. She had stared and stared at this photo for hours, trying to recall anything; any tiny spark of what she had once felt. 

She'd been told that they'd been very much in love. Desperately in love. Soulmates. 

Then, two years ago he'd been killed, cut down – along with half his unit – by a terrorist ambush in Grozny. It had hit her hard apparently. She'd been extremely depressed, and people had been very worried about her – that she might harm herself, or deliberately choose to get herself killed in action. Try to find Daniel again in death. After a period of enforced leave she'd apparently plunged herself back into work with a fervour bordering on fanaticism.

Svetlana let the photo, along with the others – the wedding pictures, the photos of her and Daniel together, apparently blissfully happy; the funeral – slip through her fingers, back into the box. Then she lay back on the bed and stared up at the ceiling.

Everyone was dead, and she had forgotten all of them. It felt like a grievous betrayal. 

Well, at least she'd apparently managed to find a cure for her grief. So much so that she only had other peoples' word that it had ever existed. 

_If only I'd known. I might have tried it earlier._ She gave a hollow, despairing laugh.


	2. Chebakov

2. Chebakov

"Kazimits Chebakov."

The screen showed a black and white surveillance photo of a flashily dressed man in his mid forties climbing out of the back of a black stretch limo.

"Officially a respected businessman, though his links to organised crime are an open secret." The speaker was a woman called Ludmilla Karpuchin. 

Tall and spare and smartly besuited, she still looked remarkably fit and athletic in her late fifties. There was scarcely an ounce of unnecessary flesh on her lanky frame. Short cropped greying blonde hair made her face look harsh and unforgiving. She was the Director of this top-secret joint FSB/SVR special intelligence task force.

"Money laundering; prostitution rackets; stealing and selling on classified intelligence. You name it. Chebakov's as dirty as they come. Unfortunately he has enough friends in high political circles to make him more or less untouchable by the FSB. Too many high ranking people would face sudden, immanent embarrassment were he to be arrested."

Svetlana gave a short nod as Director Karpuchin glanced across at her. She knew that this summary was for her benefit. To everyone else present in the briefing it was old news. The picture on screen changed, displaying a different man of similar age and dress sense.

"Luri Karpochev. Chebakov's former close friend and business partner. Six months ago he was assassinated. The lift he was taking was sabotaged and he and two bodyguards fell forty-seven floors. Normally the death of one such as Karpochev might have been cause for celebration, but it has had serious repercussions on our efforts to take down Chebakov. Chebakov has become convinced he is the next target for Karpochev's killers, and has turned increasingly paranoiac and security conscious. The agent we had working inside his operation was compromised; murdered before we could extract him. Gaining any intelligence at all on him has proved the devil's own work ever since."

"Do we know who killed Karpochev?" Svetlana asked, looking up from her notes, which made no mention of it. Everyone else present turned and looked at her.

"That is yet to have been determined to our satisfaction," Director Karpuchin answered after a fractional pause. "Anyway, you'll be pleased to know we've finally got our hands on some actionable intelligence in regard to Mr. Chebakov. Agent Romatsev?"

Tchéky stood up and cleared his throat. "Thank you Director. Last week we intercepted a communiqué that indicated Chebakov had acquired a 'package'. We don't know exactly what the package is, though reference was made to a manuscript of some kind. What we do know is that Chebakov has arranged to sell this package on to a Muslim fundamentalist group operating out of Chechnya. Of course, we can't allow that to happen, and our best chance of preventing the transaction taking place occurs tonight." As he said this he looked directly at Svetlana.

Svetlana raised an eyebrow. "What happens tonight?"

* * *

"Like what you see, do you?" Svetlana favoured the doorman with a slanted smile as she stood with her arms outstretched to either side and her chest thrust out. 

She was dressed in a black PVC mini-skirt that stopped before mid-thigh and high-heeled diamanté sandals. A bright pink mesh blouse was unbuttoned halfway down the front to show a black push-up bra. The ensemble was completed by a thick dark auburn wig and vampishly heavy makeup. Red tinted sunglasses perched precariously on the end of her nose.

"Not bad." The doorman tried and failed to sound nonchalant as he ran a hand held metal detector up and down her sides. He didn't even attempt to disguise the fact he that his gaze was glued fast to her uplifted and out-thrust cleavage.

"Tsk, only not bad?"  Dark red lips formed a sultry pout. "Well you can't have any of it anyway. It's for your boss."

The metal detector bleeped as it passed over the large and ostentatious ring that adorned her finger. "Take it off," the doorman ordered.

She furrowed her brow, frowning. "It was a gift from Kazzy. He likes me you know? It's a real diamond."

"Of course it is." He smirked. "Now give it here."

Feigning anger, she pulled it off her finger and thrust it at him. "Happy?"

"Ecstatic." He looked the ring over carefully, twisting at the gem, looking for any sign of seams or hidden compartments. Svetlana tapped a foot impatiently.

Finally he appeared satisfied. There was a mocking edge to his smirk as he handed the ring back to her. "You do know that if it was really pure gold it wouldn't have set off the metal detector?"

"Bastard," She muttered under her breath just loud enough to be overheard.

His smirk just broadened.

Pointedly Svetlana ignored him, turning to the second doorman who had been going meticulously through the contents of her sequinned shoulder bag. "Can I have my bag back?" She stretched out a hand imperiously.

"Tsarina." He favoured her with a mock bow.

"Thank you." She snatched it from him grasp, then strutted angrily up the steps and through the front door. Grinning at each other the two doormen moved on to search the next of the girls in the line.

"Okay, I'm in."

"Copy Mountaineer."

* * *

"Tonight Mr. Chebakov is throwing a party." Tchéky grinned wolfishly. "An entourage from Khazakstan are in town as his guests. They've just closed an arms deal. That used to be Karpochev's area, but Chebakov has conscientiously branched out to meet the needs of his late partner's client list. The party is being held in the Khazaks' honour."

"I take it we have an in on this party?"

"Oh, indeed Svetlana." He spread his hands. "In normal circumstances you'd have more chance of crashing the current summit between Premier Putin and Prime Minister Blair. The security is that tight."

"But you've found a weakness."

"Oh, indeed."

"Get on with it, Agent Romatsev," Director Karpuchin interjected dryly. "I'm sure we're all fully appreciative of your cleverness."

Tchéky coloured slightly. The corner of Svetlana's mouth twitched, almost imperceptibly. "Girls," he said finally. "Chebakov runs several high class brothels, and is providing a number of girls for his guests . . . shall we say, entertainment. We've found a way to intercept and replace one of them."

"So I get to play prostitute."

Apparently Tchéky managed to detect the suggestion of distaste in Svetlana's voice even though she thought she'd managed to keep it well hidden. "It's just a way in, Svetlana. You won't be expected to 'entertain' anybody." A half smile. "Except possibly yourself."

"You're sure you're ready for this, Agent Borushka?" Director Karpuchin was looking at her intently as she spoke.

Svetlana returned her gaze levelly – gave a single emphatic nod. "Completely ready."

The Director smiled. It looked a fraction odd – out of place – on her hard drawn face. "Welcome back Svetlana. We've all missed you."

* * *

Svetlana strode rapidly across the floor of the main ballroom, heels clicking on the white marble tiles, hips swaying metronomically. Music blared, mixed with shouted conversation and raucous laughter. The air was hazy with smoke, only some of it tobacco.

Suddenly – unexpectedly – an arm swung around her waist, bringing her up short. "And where are you off to in such a hurry, pretty one?"

It was an effect to suppress her instinctive reflexes. _Twist the arm round hard, locking it tight. Then use the assailant's own momentum to throw him over your hip, maintaining your grip on the arm and dislocating it at the shoulder in the process. Stamp down hard on the exposed throat to forestall any further struggles_. Instead she managed to merely twist lithely round in the man's grasp, tilt her head winsomely to one side, and smile seductively. "Hurrying to meet you of course, sweetness."

"To meet me? Aw, isn't that nice." She caught a blast of sour, alcohol-laden breath at point blank range but managed to keep herself from flinching back. She traced a red-nailed fingertip slowly down a jowly, stubble covered cheek. "Chebakov may be a complete ass," he slurred out. "But I have to commend him on his taste in women."

"So sweetness, would you like to dance?" The hand that had initially made itself at home on her hip now slid down to grope clumsily at her backside through the seat of her skirt. She contented herself by simply imagining herself breaking every bone in that hand, one at a time. _Start with the carpals, then move up to the metacarpals . . . The phalanges would probably need the help of something like a hammer or nutcracker_. Her smile broadened and she snaked a finger teasingly down the front of his shirt. "Or would you prefer to go somewhere more . . . private?"

He leered at her in a way that made her think he was going to start drooling like an overeager bulldog. "Somewhere more private?" 

"Good choice," Drawing him forward, she planted a firm kiss on his cheek.

* * *

"Lipstick?"

"Lipstick," The balding, avuncular head of technical services agreed with a smile. His name was Sergei Krassik, and in appearance he managed to fulfil just about every stereotype of absent minded professor there was going. "Laced with a microcapsule formula derived from sodium pentathol that can be absorbed through the skin. Makes a person drowsy, euphoric and highly suggestible."

Svetlana started to say something, but Sergei forestalled her by raising a hand and smiling. "I think I know the next question, Svet." He slid a small box across the table to her. It contained half a dozen plain white pills. "Take one of these twenty minutes before applying the lipstick. It will counteract the effects. One dose will last for three hours. The active ingredients in the lipstick will oxidise and become ineffective within about an hour. Simply reapply as necessary."

"So all I have to do is kiss someone . . .."

"And they'll do just about anything you want," he finished for her with another smile. "Of course, possibly _you_ don't even need the lipstick."

* * *

Svetlana felt the man stumble against her side and guided him towards a low, leather-covered sofa. He collapsed onto it, gazing up at her with a somewhat glazed look. She started to walk away.

"Where are you going, pretty one?"

She smiled back at him over her shoulder. "I just need to powder my nose, honey. I'll be right back."

"But your nose is already perfect," he pouted.

"Surely you want me to look my best for you?"

After a moment he nodded, smiling dopily and making a little waving gesture. "Hurry. I'll be waiting."

Turning on heel, she suppressed a shudder as she walked away. 

As she reached the other side of the hall she looked around casually to make sure that no one was paying her any undue attention, then ducked into a dimly lit corridor. She reached up and swept a strand of hair back from her face, tucking it behind her ear. "Boy Scout. Confirm: the door to the basement is 2G."

"Confirmed Mountaineer," Tchéky's voice came back over her earpiece. "2G"

She tried the handle. It turned, but the door was locked. Quickly she opened her handbag, taking out a couple of hairpins and fixing them together to form a lock-picking tool. Bending down she went to work.

After about a minute of careful probing and manipulating there was an audible click as the lock's tumblers turned over. She tried the door handle again, and this time it swung open.

A hand clamped down on her shoulder. "What are you doing?"

* * *

"Perfume." Sergei sprayed a fine mist of it into the air between them. "Channel no. 5, to be precise. Smells nice, don't you think?"

Svetlana nodded agreement, a small tolerant smile curving her lips. She liked Sergei, she found. The distracted, slightly absent-minded air he carried around was a welcome distraction.

"I buy it for my wife. She likes it too." A look of concentration furrowed Sergei's brow. "Now if you do this . . ." He twisted the base of the perfume bottle 180° clockwise. " . . . like so, then give it a shake, you've got something altogether different." He looked up at Svetlana's face again. "And believe me you don't want to accidentally inhale any of it this time. It'll drop a 300lb man instantly and render him unconscious for at least ten minutes. The hangover when he wakes up . . ." His face twisted in the pained grimace of somebody speaking from experience. ". . . like nothing on earth.

He handed the bottle to Svetlana, who accepted it from him carefully.

"Needless to say, I don't buy _this_ for my wife."

Svetlana laughed.

"Although maybe I should.  Might give me some peace from all the nagging I get about the hours I work."

* * *

Svetlana turned and staggered drunkenly against the guard who had accosted her. She belched in a rather unladylike manner. Lifting a hand to cover her mouth she collapsed into helpless giggles. Her free hand slid into her handbag under cover of the distraction, grasped hold of the perfume bottle and twisted the bottom round.

"You shouldn't be here," the guard admonished sternly.

"Hey!" She struggled ineffectually. "Hands off!"

"I'm afraid I'm going to have to report this," he said trying to pull her forwards, away from the door.

Digging her heels in, Svetlana noted a second guard standing behind the first one's shoulder, watching silently. He looked professional and tough, and there was a noticeably bulge beneath his armpit that indicated the presence of a shoulder holster. "This way is not . . . not the bathroom?"

"Does it look like the bathroom?"

She pointed querulously back along the corridor towards the ballroom. "But he – the fat, ugly one there – he told me the bathroom was this way. It _must_ be here somewhere."

The guard said nothing and tried to drag her more firmly. Svetlana manufactured a stumble, going down on one knee. As she came up again, the guard leaning over her, she sprayed him in the face.

He managed to blink once. Then he collapsed bonelessly, hitting the floor with a thud. 

After gaping for a moment the second guard started to reach for his gun. Svetlana kicked out at him hard, connecting with his wrist and sending the pistol flying before it could be brought to bear on her.

He punched her in the stomach but she twisted and rolled with the blow, elbowing him in the side of the neck and bouncing his head hard against the wall. He staggered dazedly and she grabbed hold of the back of his suit, propelling him headlong through the open door and down the stairs. He hit the floor at the bottom with a crash and lay still.

Sucking in a deep breath, Svetlana dragged the first guard through the door after him, closing it behind her.

* * *

"According to the blueprints we downloaded the main junction box is located in the building's basement."

Svetlana just nodded. She'd already read as much in the missions specs.

"When you manage to locate it you'll want to wire this up to it. It'll let your partner hack into the main security feed." Sergei showed her what looked like a make-up compact. "Press the hinges here like so, and out pops a wire. It's a remote modem, exactly the same as you've used many times before. Just looks a bit different this time." He coughed suddenly, realising what he'd just said. "Er . . ."

She smiled at him reassuringly. "Don't worry, Sergei. I've used them in infiltration training. I know how they work."

He nodded – coughed again. "Sorry, Svet. It was a stupid thing to say. I wasn't thinking. I . . . I can't say I know what you feel. To be honest I hope I never know what you feel. But . . . but I hope you get your memories back soon."

He held the make-up compact disguised modem out to her. As she accepted it from him she noticed the elastoplast covering the webbing between the forefinger and thumb of his left hand. Just like Tchéky had.

She blinked. "Thanks Sergei. So do I."

* * *

Svetlana finished wiring the remote modem into the junction box and stepped back. "Okay, Boy Scout. I've piggybacked onto the security feed. You should be getting a signal now."

"Just a moment." There was a brief pause. "All right, I'm in Mountaineer. Well done"

She glanced across at the two unconscious guards. Both were now gagged, wrists and ankles secured with plastic ties. Neither showed any sign of coming round. 

Her heart was pounding, adrenaline flowing, and she took a deep breath to steady herself. Surprisingly, she found that she was enjoying herself. The only problems she had to face were the immediate here and now, and she knew she had the skills to deal with that. The fact that a mistake or a bit of bad luck would probably get her killed was – after the past few months – oddly liberating. For the first time in a long time she felt almost in control.

"I'm heading on up Boy Scout." She started up the basement stairs.

"Hold Mountaineer! I've got Chebakov on camera twelve. He's heading for his office." She heard Tchéky swearing beneath his breath. This wasn't supposed to happen, she knew. Chebakov was supposed to be fully occupied with his role as party host. "There's someone with him. A man. Running facial recognition now . . ."

Svetlana stood at the top of the basement stairs, waiting for him to get back to her.

"Damn. Nothing." Another muttered curse, then excitedly: "Hah! I can see the keypad. Four. Seven. Three. One. Shit. Shit. Missed the last number. His shoulder was in the way."

"Don't worry about it Boy Scout. I'll hack it like we planned."

"Like you did in Sevrenia? You set the alarm off that time."

Although she had no more direct memory of those events than anything else she had read the report on that particular operation. "Sergei said he's made improvements since then. It won't happen again."

"He said that last time too."

She stifled a sigh. "The security cameras have an infrared setting, right? It was in the tech report wasn't it? Try switching over to infrared. If the number isn't a repeated one you might be able to still pick up a heat trace."

There was a slightly startled sounding laugh from Tchéky over her earpiece. "Six. The last number is a six. You're a genius Mountaineer. You know that? You should. I tell you all the time."

A fractional smile touched her lips. "I'm heading back to the party, Boy Scout. I'll mingle a bit. If Chebakov's a long time it'll look less suspicious that way."

"Copy Mountaineer."

"Requesting radio silence until you have news on Chebakov."

"Radio silent now."

Svetlana exited the basement, pausing briefly to lock the door behind her. Then, with an intake of breath, she slid effortlessly back into her alias's persona. Everything – body language, posture, the way she moved and the set of her face – altered subtly, transforming her into an entirely different person once more. She started back towards the ballroom.

* * *

"Chebakov's out. Move on the package."

Svetlana smiled at the Khazak army general, reaching to ease the empty champagne glass from his hand. "I'll get us another drink." She slipped easily from his grasp, ignoring his half-hearted protest. "Then perhaps there are other things we might find to amuse you . . ."

As soon as she was free of him she headed up the stairs. Chebakov was coming the other way, apparently in a hurry. A tall, dark-haired man in his mid fifties walked at the mafia man's side. Their eyes met briefly and she smiled vacuously. He didn't so much as acknowledge her. Both men looked to be preoccupied by something.

She headed into the depths of the house, following the route she'd memorised from the blueprints. "Boy Scout, start looping the surveillance feeds."

"Feeds looped Mountaineer. You're clear. Third door on the right. The one with the key pad," Tchéky informed her, though she had already spotted it and was walking towards it.

_Four. Seven. Three. One. Six._ She found herself holding her breath, but the light beside the keypad turned green. She pushed inside. "Clear, boy scout. You can set the feeds back."

* * *

"Sunglasses." Sergei lifted them up to his eyes but didn't put them on. "Don't really suit me. My complexion perhaps?"

"Perhaps," Svetlana agreed with a smile.

"On you I'm sure they'll look lovely though. There's a button here on top of the right arm. Press it and you get x-ray vision. Works _much_ better than the sort you buy from the backs of comic books I assure you. The battery life's crap unfortunately. We're working on improving it." He shrugged helplessly. "You have maybe twenty seconds use."

"So no using them to look through other peoples clothes?"

Sergei coughed. "Anyway, they'll help you locate Chebakov's safe. We know the model – latest spec Handvalova; uses advanced cushion technology that makes it practically explosive proof, and it'll take about an hour to drill your way in. We know it's in his office, but we don't know where precisely. Just a precaution in case it's well hidden."

She nodded. "So if I'm not going to be blowing or drilling my way in . . ."

"This." He held up a microchip. "Electronic locks make my life so much easier than it used to be. Some of the mechanical ones can be quite tricky. I'll put it in the back of a watch. Place the watch against the door, wait a minute or two, and hey presto . . . You're in."

"A minute or two?"

"We've tried it on the exact make and model Chebakov that owns. The length of time varies a bit, but I guarantee it works every time."

* * *

The safe was indeed not immediately obvious.

Standing in the middle of Chebakov's unlit office, Svetlana turned around slowly. The sunglasses were pushed up to the bridge of her nose now, and she held the button in the right arm depressed.

It was behind a Persian style tapestry on the wall to the right of the door. She ran her hands around the tapestry's edges, checking for wires or anything else that might trigger an alarm. Then she pulled it aside. The wall behind was completely blank.

"Okaaay," she muttered to herself beneath her breath.

After tracing her fingertips over the seemingly blank patch of wall she finally located a fractional indent that might have been a catch. She pressed it, and a few seconds later there was a soft click. A section of wall slid open to reveal the safe.

Quickly she pressed the face of her watch to the safe door above the electronic locking mechanism, holding it in place.

As she waited she looked around the office. An electric cable snaked across the carpet near her right foot. It passed behind a broad desk before leading to a tall, baroque lampshade that stood beside a bookcase stacked with a variety of untouched leather bound volumes. A modern art painting she didn't recognise dominated the wall opposite her. Beside it was a drinks cabinet and a pair of filing cabinets. A black leather sofa and a couple of matching chairs were arranged around a low glass-topped coffee table.

Abruptly there was a quiet exhalation of air, and the safe door swung open. Svetlana started slightly.

_The manuscript is the top priority. It's old. Fifteenth century perhaps. You shouldn't be able to miss it. Take anything else in the safe that's portable. Photograph anything that isn't. Sergei should have provided you with a camera. Ah, that ring? Um . . . very tasteful._ Those had been Tchéky's words as they'd gone over the mission specs together.

The manuscript was immediately in front of her. She lifted it out carefully so as not to damage it and placed it in her bag. Aside from that there were a few sheets of paper, what looked like a diary bound in red leather, and a small leather pouch. Opening this revealed a handful of what looked to be high carat diamonds. 

_What about Chebakov, _she'd asked_._

The diamonds, diary and paper all went into her bag too. With the safe apparently empty she started to feel around inside, looking for any compartments she might have missed.

Tchéky had simply shrugged. _Once we have the manuscript he ceases to be of any intelligence value. But let's keep it simple, eh? First day back on the job. No need for any unnecessary risks_.

Behind her the office door clicked open. She whirled. Chebakov stood there, flanked by a pair of looming bodyguards. All three had handguns pointed directly at her.

Chebakov's expression managed to combine smile, sneer and grimace into one. "So I was right. I thought I recognised you. You're not going to steal from me this time, bitch."

* * *

Sitting in the back of a van parked half a block away, Tchéky Romatsev blinked. He looked between the two monitor screens. Camera 14 and Camera 13. Someone had walked through shot on Camera 14. They hadn't appeared again in Camera 13's field of coverage, as they should have. Abruptly he turned and stared at Camera 12, showing the door to Chebakov's office, everything apparently clear.

His jaw clenched with sudden fear.

Someone had looped the feeds on _him_. The same trick he'd pulled earlier, only now he was on the receiving end. He started typing frantically, but nothing happened. He was locked out. "Shit!"

"Mountaineer! Come in Mountaineer! We've been made. Abort! Get the hell out of there now!

* * *

_Better late than never, eh Tchéky?_

Svetlana raised her hands carefully above her head to show she was unarmed. She could feel her heart racing, though to all external appearances she was completely, icily calm. She tilted one eyebrow up. "You recognise me? I don't believe we've ever been . . ."

"You think a change of wig would fool me, little girl?" He gave a barking laugh. "You were blonde then. I think I liked the blue latex dress better. Very fetching."

She stared at him blankly.

"Interlace your hands behind your head. Good. Now step away from the safe.."

Svetlana did as she was told.

"Tell me who sent you. I might let you live."

He was lying. She saw that immediately from his eyes. He was going to kill her whatever she said or didn't say. Unobtrusively she hooked one foot underneath the power cord connecting to the lampshade.

"Was it you who killed Luri?" He took a couple of steps towards her, pulling the hammer back on his pistol. "Was it? Tell me! Tell me who sent you!"

She backed away from him, feigning an appropriate level of fear. It wasn't, honestly, that much of a stretch. The power cable connecting to the lamp drew taut.

"You'll tell me what you know. One way or another." Chebakov's cheeks were red and there was a rabid looking gleam to his eyes. He was very nearly frothing. "Is your partner here? The black guy. I'll . . .."

Svetlana yanked back hard on the power cable with her foot. The lampshade toppled sideways, crashing into the bookcase next to it and knocking that over too. Leather bound books spilled out in a mini avalanche.

Chebakov and his bodyguards span on the noise. Gunfire resounded, thunderous in the tight confines. Brilliant muzzle flashes lit up the office in dazzling staccato patterns of light. The air reeked of burnt cordite. Pages flew, scattering like chaff as 9mm bullets tore into them.

Darting forward Svetlana snatched up a heavy glass ashtray from the desk. As Chebakov started to turn back towards her, realising they'd been had, she hurled it at his head. It nailed him directly between the eyes with a sickeningly wet crunch.

Before he could topple over backwards she grabbed hold of him and twisted him round, pulling him against her as a human shield. She grasped his hand in hers before its grip could slacken enough for his gun fall loose, then wrenched it sharply round and pulled his finger tight across the trigger.

The bodyguard on the left took three bullets in the chest and stomach, collapsing with a surprised sounding groan. The other bodyguard, wild-eyed, started shooting back, and the fact that his boss was in the way be damned.

Chebakov shuddered in Svetlana's grasp as bullets ripped into him. As she swung him round to aim his gun at the second bodyguard one bullet managed to pass right the way through his torso, scoring a fiery line along the side of her ribcage. Gritting her teeth against the pain she pulled the trigger again and again and again.

Finally the second bodyguard fell backwards, crashing through the glass-topped coffee table. 

Dropping the now extremely dead Chebakov, she snatched up one of the pistols. She was aware of stinging in her side, her blouse sticking to the blood running down from the wound, but she pushed the pain away, compartmentalising it somewhere far to the back of her mind. It wasn't going to kill her any time soon so right now it didn't matter.

Sticking her head cautiously round the door, she saw four more armed guards rushing down the corridor towards her. She managed to duck back inside the office a moment before the bullets started to fly again, slamming the door shut. 

A couple of shots into the keypad shorted it out in a spray of sparks, locking it down tight. Quickly she headed for the window, opening it and gazing down at the vertiginous four-storey descent to street level somewhat dubiously.

Behind her somebody slammed a shoulder against the door in an effort to barge through. A second attempt immediately afterwards met with no more success, so someone hit upon the bright idea of trying to shoot their way through. She winced at the sound of bullets ricocheting off thick metal plates accompanied moments later by startled yelps.

"Boy Scout. I'm stuck in Chebakov's office. Is there any other way out apart from the window?"

"Mountaineer? Thank god. Are you okay?"

"Fine!" she snapped. "But I need an out."

"Just a second. Just a second." Something slammed against the door again, much harder than before. It was accompanied by the sound of splintering wood. They'd managed to rig up some kind of battering ram it seemed.

"I need an answer now!"

The battering ram hit the door again. Svetlana glanced across at it. It would maybe take another couple of impacts before it gave.

"Okay. You see a drinks cabinet? Against the north wall."

"I see it." She crossed over to it. There was a third crash from the door behind her.

"It should be hinged against the wall on one side."

"Yes. Yes, I got it." The drinks cabinet swung out from the wall with a soft whisper.

"Behind it there should be a door. It leads to a private elevator that comes out at street level. I'll meet you there."

There was a fourth crashing impact. The office door flew open.

* * *

"Svet. Thank god." Tchéky stared at her as she got into the van beside him. His eyes widened. "You're bleeding. You've been shot!"

She slammed the van's door shut and sat back in the passenger seat with a gulping sigh. Her breath was coming quickly and she blew a strand of hair away from her face. "It's just a scratch. I'll be fine." She plonked her handbag down on the dashboard. "Now drive."

He nodded, putting the van into gear and pulling smoothly away from the curb. Their pace was slow and sedate so as not to attract any undue attention. A getaway worked best when nobody else realised that it was a getaway.

After about a minute of silence Svetlana spoke again. Her voice was tight. "The bag took the bullet for me. The manuscript's been damaged. Hopefully the majority of it will be recoverable."

Tchéky flicked a sideways glance at her, briefly taking his eyes off the road. "What happened," he asked quietly. "How were we compromised?"

Anger flashed in Svetlana's eyes. "Chebakov recognised me."

Tchéky's jaw shut with an audible click.

"What the hell were you doing, precisely?" The anger rose openly in her voice now. "Sending me on a covert mission against someone who would recognise me?"


	3. Old Friends

3. Old Friends

"Beautiful isn't it?"

Tchéky jolted in surprise at the sound of the distorted artificial voice. He didn't bother to look round, knowing that the room behind him was still empty. The voice would be being piped in through a hidden speaker. No doubt he was being watched too. Hanging on the wall in front of him, lit from beneath by the soft yellow tinted glow of a pair of spot lamps, was a painting. It depicted a landscape – a mountain, the sky behind it a riot of burning red and orange. The subject matter should have been banal, but the artist had managed to capture something edgy – something uneasy – in his or her brushstrokes.

"'Sky Behind Mt. Sebacio'," the voice continued. "Milo Rambaldi was not primarily noted as a painter, but there is no denying his skill. Who knows what masterpieces of the canvas he might have produced had he not decided to channel his energies in . . . other directions."

Tchéky frowned, hesitating a moment to choose his words carefully. "You honour me. But why are you showing me this?" And he was being shown it, he thought. The painting didn't simply happen to be here as an afterthought.

"We recovered it just over a year ago from among the possessions of one Igor Sergei Valenko, after he was assassinated by the professional killer popularly known as the Snowman. We believe it was a personal gift to him. From 'The Man'."

A jolt passed up Tchéky's spine. The information that had just been revealed to him was immensely significant, he understood instinctively. And it had certainly not been revealed casually. From where he stood though, he understood none of it. All it did was obfuscate matters even further. "It is more than just a simple painting?"

"Oh, undoubtedly. With Rambaldi something rarely serves just a single purpose. But if you are asking if we have managed to decode anything from it . . .. The answer is, I'm afraid, no."

"The Snowman. Our . . . our new asset killed the Snowman." Tchéky felt like he was wading through treacle. 

"Indeed. Indeed. The two of them were lovers, did you know?"

Tchéky's mouth worked a moment before shutting again, no words spoken. He had no idea what response was being sought, and filling silence simply because it was there was generally a mistake.

"So how is our . . . asset after her first mission? She should be congratulated. The Chebakov operation went well."

_Well?_ Tchéky just about managed to keep his face expressionless.

The voice apparently managed to read the direction of his thoughts anyway. "Well, in terms of its result. And that is, in the end, the only measure that matters."

"Our asset is . . ." Tchéky's tongue flicked out to moisten lips that suddenly felt almost painfully dry. "Not to put to fine a point on it, out asset is bloody furious."

"Oh? Do tell." The apparent surprise sounded distinctly fake.

"Chebakov recognised her. Recognised her from an Alliance operation by the sound of it. Said she wore a blonde wig and blue latex dress, and inquired after her partner. A black man."

"Interesting," the voice responded blandly.

"She had a lot of questions. Bloody good questions. Questions that I'd want answering in her position too. Why the hell did we send her on a covert mission when there was a high risk of her being recognised and exposed? Why was their nothing on file about her previous contact with Chebakov? If we didn't know about that previous contact, then _why_ didn't we know? Who the hell is this mysterious partner we neglected to tell us about? At the very least she now thinks we're borderline incompetent."

"It is unfortunate we don't have more comprehensive intelligence available on old Alliance operations. That would help us avoid such mishaps." Again the voice was a study in blandness. "An unfortunate coincidence. Nothing more. And her skills proved more than adequate to deal with the situation. You should be pleased."

_Right._ Tchéky said nothing. He knew instinctively that he'd just been lied to. That something was being hidden. _But something is always being hidden_.

"What answers did you give her?"

A grimace, and an uncomfortable flicker in his eyes. "I obfuscated. Span her a line of bull." He shook his head. "I told her that, as a senior field operations officer of high standing in the agency, she was often assigned to sensitive interagency work that we wouldn't ourselves hold records on."

"And she bought that?"

"Maybe. Though she did wonder why she was only being told this now." Tchéky shrugged, trying and failing to appear casual. "I gave her Torshin's name. His was the first that popped into my head. Told her that he acted as her interagency handler on occasion in the past, before his retirement."

"Indeed."

Tchéky found himself wishing that he could see the expression of the speaker then. Whether he or she was pleased or displeased. Or neither. 

"Mr. Torshin is currently being briefed to expect a visit."

Tchéky grunted. Old news then. He wasn't entirely surprised.

"You wish to say something else, Mr. Romatsev?" The voice sounded almost as if it was purring.

"No," he said at length, then gave a small shake of his head.

"Come now, Tchéky. I see the question in you face. Speak your mind. It is only rarely that I have someone killed for saying something that offends me."

He hesitated still.

"That was a joke, Tchéky."

_Ha, bloody ha_. Tchéky shrugged inwardly. He wasn't going to be allowed to evade he sensed, and to be honest biting his tongue had never been his style. "Why did we use her for the op? There was nothing involved in it that another agent couldn't have handled equally well. If it was simply a test of her ability, then it seems – forgive me – idiotic. A stupid waste of our investment. We know her capabilities well enough."

There was a distorted chuckle. "Perhaps another agent would not have handled her difficulty with Mr. Chebakov so . . .  neatly."

"Another agent would not have been recognised by Chebakov and compromised in the first place."

"Hindsight is a wonderful thing, eh Tchéky?"

Tchéky's cheeks coloured fractionally. "If you wanted Chebakov assassinated, why not pay an assassin? Like with Karpochev." That was simply fishing. He had no idea whether the person he was speaking to had really been involved in Karpochev's death. "Even taking the unfortunate _coincidence_ aside it still seems a needless risk. We both know that Derevko has been making inquiries about her daughter's death. That witch is a sharp one, and her networks are not as scattered and powerless as some like to think. If we keep using our asset like this then word _will _get back to her. Is a war, especially now, something we can afford?"

For several long seconds there was silence, and Tchéky started to think that he'd been talking to himself these last few moments. 

Then, making him jump: "The manuscript our asset recovered. There was a blank page. Interesting don't you think? The bullet that injured her pierced this page and stained it with a small amount of her blood. And do you know what Tchéky?"

Tchéky swallowed, a small flower of understanding suddenly blooming. "It revealed the page, didn't it? Her blood I mean . . ."

"Revealed a fragment of it," the voice agreed. "Our tech guys used one of the samples we took from her to uncover the remainder. The particularly interesting thing they discovered? Only blood that shared the same characteristics as hers – the unusual platelet levels to be precise – would have worked. Anything else would have ruined the page. They're still baffled by it, and we had no way of knowing otherwise that her blood could be used for this purpose. Do you understand now why I had to use her for this op Tchéky?"

He nodded, slightly stunned. "I understand."

"The Order has always sought to bring Rambaldi's writings to fruition. This is still our only true purpose. Remember that."

* * *

Svetlana stood and stared at the house through a veil of grey drizzle. She'd been standing like that for several minutes now, just watching the building, slowly getting soaked. What she was waiting for she wasn't entirely sure. _Courage perhaps?_

Shaking her head in effort to clear it – to bring some order to her thoughts – she looked around slowly. There was no visible sign of the two tails that had followed her from headquarters, although they were still there watching her, she was sure. She could have lost them easily enough – neither was particularly adept at his job – but that would have led to questions that she wasn't sure she wanted to answer.

_Anyway, it's not as if I'm doing anything wrong._

_Is it?_

Gritting her teeth, she forced herself to move forward. If she didn't move now she was simply going to stand there until her courage fled entirely and she turned and walked away. Wet gravel crunched quietly beneath her boots as she walked up the drive.

Beneath the porch, out of the rain, she hesitated again before the front door. Her finger hovered, poised above the doorbell, unmoving. She stared at her reflection, pale and distorted in the frosted glass, listening to the steady drip of water from the porch frame and the branches of an old yew tree. The entire world seemed deadened somehow. Unreal and empty.

She pressed the doorbell – heard a muffled chiming inside the house.

She waited – listened to the dripping water and waited. On the road a car drove past.

Had she walked all this way only for there to be nobody home? She pressed the doorbell a second time – was about to turn and walk away.

"Hold your horses. I'm coming. I'm coming."

The door opened. In front of her stood a grey cipher of a man, tall and gaunt and seeming to fade into the wallpaper behind him. He looked at her blankly. "Can I help you, Miss?"

_He doesn't recognise me._

"Illya Torshin?"

"Yes. That's right. Who else would I be, eh?" He started a humourless, nasal sounding laugh, then tailed off abruptly, his eyes widening. "Svetlana? Svet? Is . . . is that you?"

After a moment she nodded, looking at his face and trying to judge his reaction. She still wasn't sure whether what she saw was recognition.

"Come in. Come in." He was afraid, she thought. It was well hidden – deeply buried – but the fear was definitely there. "You've changed so much since last time I saw you, Svet. I'm sorry. I . . . I didn't recognise you."

"Kazimits Chebakov didn't seem to share the same difficulty."

She saw him swallow before he turned his back on her. She followed him inside. "Sorry Svet. You took me unawares. I have to admit you were the last person in the world I expecting to show up on my doorstep. I heard about what happened to you. The accident I mean. I prayed for you. Is it true . . . That you have amnesia? You can't remember anything?"

"Yes. It's true," she said quietly.

"Yet you remember enough to come and see me though, eh?" In the living room he gestured for her to take a seat – folded himself wearily into a high backed leather armchair.

She shook her head. "No. No I didn't remember. Agent Romatsev mentioned you to me."

He made a snorting sound. "Ah, Agent Romatsev. Tchéky. How is he? Still the same as always?" 

Svetlana touched the side of her head with one finger. "I don't really have anything in here to compare against, you know."

"Sorry. Sorry. Of course not."

"He seems well enough. As far as I can tell."

"You want a drink Svet? I'll get you a drink." He got up and walked across to a glass-fronted drinks cabinet.

She shook her head. "Not for me, thanks."

"Mind if I get myself one? My nerves are a touch frazzled."

She managed a small smile. "No. Of course not. I'm sorry I startled you Mr. Torshin. I should have called ahead."

His hand shook badly as he pored himself a shot of whisky into a tumbler. "Illya. Illya, please. It's not as though we're strangers, right?" There was a slightly wry smile on his lips as he turned back to her.

"You live here alone . . . Illya?" His name felt uncomfortable on her tongue.

"My wife's away visiting her sister at the moment. Good thing too. I don't have to explain to her why I have a beautiful young woman visiting me unexpectedly."

They shared a slightly awkward smile.

"But you did not come here to ask me about my family." Illya took a sip from his glass. His hand was still shaking. "You mentioned that shit, Chebakov. I take it that wasn't just a casual reference."

"He's dead."

Illya snorted. "You killed him?"

"To be entirely accurate about it, he was shot by one of his own bodyguards."

He just nodded. He didn't seem overly curious though, which surprised her for reasons she couldn't quite pinpoint.. "Let me guess. Those idiots at the taskforce sent you on a covert op against him eh? And surprise, surprise. He recognised you. Almost compromised you."

She studied his expression carefully, but Illya seemed to have regained his composure now and wasn't giving much away. "That's about the size of it."

"Svet, I retired. One and a half years ago. I retired."

"I'm sorry Illya. I just need to talk. Please?"

He sighed. "I can't. Not about this." He shook his head – knocked back the remainder of the whisky in a single shot. "You want to know about the interagency work you did. The stuff the taskforce hasn't been able to fill you in on because they don't have access to the files. The stuff that almost just got you killed."

"Yes."

Again he shook his head. "I'm truly sorry Svet. But I can't tell you anything. FSB classified those files, and since your accident you no longer have the requisite level of security clearance. If I tell you anything I'm committing a crime. When I was younger, maybe . . . but I'm too old for prison."

"You can't be serious."

"Like I said, I'm sorry."

"But I was on those missions. It's information I should already be party to." She tapped the side of her head. Hazel-green eyes flashed with a combination of anger and incredulous frustration. "If not for this, I would already know what was in those files. It's . . . it's ridiculous. Don't do this to me Illya."

He paused, before speaking slowly and carefully, holding her gaze levelly. "I said I retired Svet. I didn't lie when I said that, but you have to know that no one ever leaves entirely. Once you're in you never escape from their attention. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

At length she nodded. He was saying they were being listened to. That his house was bugged, and their conversation was not private. 

She sighed, seeing in his eyes that he wasn't going to break the trust he'd been given. Not today, anyway. "And what if my memories come back, Illya? I'm told it is likely they will at some point, though that may be just a doctor's panacea. What happen then? Will I by prosecuted for mishandling classified information all of a sudden?" She couldn't manage to keep the tinge of bitterness out of her voice.

"Then well and good. I'm sure everyone involved will be . . . intelligent about it."

Silence. After a time Illya cleared his throat. "So. Who is your director in the taskforce? I haven't been keeping track like I once did."

Svetlana blinked. "Karpuchin."

"Ah." Illya shook his head. "I was going to suggest you ask him or her to put some pressure in the . . . appropriate place, but . . ." He shook his head again.

"But what?"

He hesitated. "Karpuchin is competent enough, but she is very much a woman of her age." He looked at her, as if waiting for something, then shrugged and went on. "She had to work hard to get where she has in a man's world. She's grown cautious. Plays it scrupulously by the book, and covers her backside at all times. Doesn't take risks where there isn't a good chance of a big payoff."

"So she won't help me?"

He grunted. "She may attempt to help. But she won't put everything she's worked for on the line for your sake. She'll take no for an answer without a real fight." Again he shook his head. "Like I said . . ."

"You're sorry. Don't worry about it." Looking at him she could see the tension in the set of his shoulders, and the way he grasped the empty whisky tumbler – a fractional tightness about the mouth. The fear was still there she saw, and she knew that he wanted her gone. At the first available opportunity. She rose from her chair, forcing a smile she didn't feel. Suddenly she wanted to be gone too. "I'm sorry too. I'll leave you in peace Illya."

"Wait." He half rose to follow her, but she waved him back. "I'm not trying to chase you away Svet. And I am glad to see you again. It's just . . ." He made a fly swatting gesture. "We could talk about other things. Maybe that would help?"

"No, I should go. I have work . . .. I do understand Illya, honestly. You're retired. It wasn't fair of me to come here." She turned away from him and headed towards the door. "Don't get up. I'll see myself out."

As she left the house, though,  she kept coming back to one thing. One detail she just couldn't get past.

_He didn't recognise me_.

_He _didn't_ recognise me_.

* * *

The woman stood, silhouetted against the window, looking down at the firing range. She was tall and athletic, dressed in a black suit, long black hair falling unbound halfway down her back.

She watched, rapt, as below her Svetlana – also dressed in black, hair pulled up in a bun and wearing ear protectors and goggles – shot series after series after series. Each time the target sheet whirred up the range for inspection it showed a tight grouping of shots directly at its centre, not a single bullet gone even fractionally astray. Her concentration was something else to behold: obsessive, iron hard, to the point of desperation – to the point of insanity.

Behind the woman a door opened, but she didn't look round, continuing to watch Svetlana shoot. She heard footsteps cross the room until their owner stood behind her shoulder. Still she gave no hint of acknowledgement, although she knew the person was waiting for her to do so. A trace of a smile curved across sensually full lips.

"You were told to stay away from her, Anna." Tchéky said eventually, cracking first.

Anna Espinosa just laughed. "I don't know what amuses me more, Tchéky. Seeing her like this. Or seeing all the effort we've put into building this pantomime around her. Are we trying to make ourselves SD-6, so that poor little Sydney doesn't feel homesick?"

"Her name is Svetlana Borushka. She is only ever to be referred to as Svetlana Borushka, even in private. No other name for her exists."

Again Anna laughed. "Tell me honestly that this doesn't strike you as totally ridiculous."

"It is felt – by those whose wisdom I know better than to question – that her conditioning will take better if her surroundings are a familiar shape. Her subconscious mind is less likely to rebel if it feels comfortable that things are as they have always been."

Anna snorted. "A lot of effort to little purpose. She brings us nothing that we don't already have. What can she do for us that we can't already achieve easily enough through other means?"

"What can she do that you can't, you mean Anna?"

"Well you said it." She turned around to face him, fixing him levelly with her coolly piercing gaze. Tchéky had to catch himself from backing off a couple of steps. Down below Svetlana started to shoot another series.

"Did you happen to see her test scores? She beat you in every single category, unless I'm mistaken."

Anna's eyes hardened. "I set those scores straight out of the academy, without the benefit of eight years field experience. Let me take the tests again now Tchéky and I'd beat her out of sight."

"Why of course," he smirked.

"Anyway, it is not all about scores. She is too softhearted. Not ruthless enough. Lacks that killer instinct."

"I think Mr. Chebakov might disagree with that assessment." Tchéky's smile didn't fade. "What you mean is that, unlike certain others I could name, she is not a psychopath."

The corner of Anna's mouth turned up contemptuously.

"I don't think I've ever seen you jealous before Anna. I like it. It suits you."

She stepped past him, deliberately barging against his shoulder and making him stagger. At the door she turned back briefly for a parting shot. "I think I'll enjoy watching when she works out what's been done to her. Enjoy watching as she guts you , Tchéky." She smiled brightly. "Of course, if you ask me very nicely I might be persuaded to save your worthless hide and kill her for you."

Anna started to turn away again, but Tchéky brought her up short. "Kill her Anna? What makes you think that's even within your capabilities?"

Her eyes were dangerous, but Tchéky went on regardless.

"I've read the reports. Eduardo Benegas's Auto museum in Madrid. Now, who was it that successfully recovered the case containing the Rambaldi code? Was it you? I don't quite recall . . .. Or how about the church in Malaga. One of you gets away with the _Sol d'Oro_. The other is left handcuffed to a pew. Ouch. Now that must have been humiliating." He smiled blandly at her taut expression. "And then there was the engineering department at Oxford University. Do you recall what happened there too? Oh, and lets not leave out the clock maker in Positano, Italy. Not exactly a resounding success – from your point of view at least."

"I beat her when it mattered. In Argentina. _I_ recovered the journal pages."

"But even then you couldn't manage to kill her, could you? And she took the pages back in Es-Sekhira, in any case. After which point K-Directorate pretty much ceased to exist as a force."

Anna shrugged. "As did SD-6 and the Alliance not that long afterwards. All to _our_ advantage."

"Because she was working for the CIA the whole time, and to a large extent brought about their demise." Another bland smile. "I'm not a betting man Anna, but if I was then . . . let's just say I know who I would be putting my money on."

For a long time she held his gaze, seemingly impassive. Then she said quietly: "I'll remember this conversation well, Tchéky."

Before he could blink she was gone. Tchéky let out a long breath of pent up tension, a shudder passing the length of his spine.

Briefly he wondered, as he turned to watch Svetlana shooting, what the hell he'd been trying to achieve.

* * *

"Did you find what you wanted?"

Tchéky and Svetlana stood side-by-side, leaning against her old bronze coloured Toyota Landcruiser and gazing out across the river Neva. In the distance the Hermitage dominated the horizon, a beautiful beacon against the night sky.

She shook her. "Apparently my own memories are classified information that I don't have the correct security clearance for." She decided not to mention the other suspicions lurking in her head. He had, after all, been the one to direct her to him.

"Ah."

"You don't seem surprised." She looked round at his profile, shadowy and angular in the yellow glow from the streetlights.

"He always was too timid, that one." He looked round too and their eyes met briefly. "And I always have been a cynical bastard. That way, I find, I never get surprised in a negative fashion."

She looked back out across the river. "I'm not sure if I can do this."

"What do you mean?"

"This job. Not like this, with this huge black hole in my head. If every time I speak to someone I don't know for certain whether I've met them before – if they might recognise me or not. Last night was almost a disaster. I got lucky, but next time it might not just be myself I end up getting killed."

"But there's always that risk, to a greater or lesser degree. Someone who might remember you who you have no recollection of. Even for those of us who memories are supposed to be intact." He shrugged. "Besides, Chebakov was a paranoiac. I doubt I could recognise the woman from last night in the person standing beside me now."

"Tchéky, everyone in this business is a paranoiac. If you're not paranoid then it's because you're already dead."

"So maybe you're right."

She looked round at him, slightly startled. "Tchéky?"

Suddenly he seemed a fraction hesitant – uncomfortable. "I'm just saying, do you really have to be a field agent? Is it really worth it? I mean, if you really think it's an unsafe risk. I'm the last person to want to see you get hurt. You've got a sharp mind. Heck, by any measure you're a bona fide genius. Put in for reassignment to analysis. They'll welcome you with open arms."

Svetlana studied his face, trying to work out if he was being serious. He looked serious. She remembered the way she'd felt last night though. That this was something she was good at. A natural even. This was what she had been born to do. The thought of giving it up again, just as she'd rediscovered it  . . . She shook her head.

"Svet?" His voice held concern.

"That's another thing. My memories. Don't you think it's odd?"

"What's odd?" His gaze was curious. And also slightly worried, she thought.

She took a deep breath. "That every single personal memory I have from before the accident is gone. But I can remember other stuff just fine. How to read, write. How to drive. Facts too. I mean, I knew who Premier Putin is. That George W. Bush is president of the USA. What the SVA and FSB are. I knew about the political situation in Chechnya without having to be told too, but I can't remember that my husband died there. I can't remember my husband at all."

"Honestly, Svet? The whole thing seems odd to me. Scary odd." He made vague waving gesture. "But then I'm no neuroscientist. Perhaps different types of knowledge are stored in different parts of the brain?"

"Maybe."

"Or maybe there's a part of it is psychological."

She looked around at him sharply. "So what? Are you saying I've gone mad?"

His face bore the look of someone who knows they've just opened their mouth and inserted their foot up to the ankle – someone who is now praying for the ground to open up and swallow them. He gave a strained and uneasy chuckle. "Show me someone who's sane, Svet. Walk along the street and find one person – any person – who is actually sane. Go on. I dare you. And in this business . . .. What you said, right? You have to be paranoid. You have to be mad to even consider it. Hell, I know I'm nuts. Why should you be any different?" He smiled at her. "Sanity's overrated anyway. Terribly dull I'd imagine."

Despite herself Svetlana found herself laughing. His smile broadened, taking in the whole of his face.

After the laughter died and silence fell between them a slight shiver passed up her spine. The air had turned slightly chill.

Tchéky looked at her, unspeaking. After a moment's pause he tentatively – and somewhat awkwardly – put an arm around her shoulder. At first she remained rigid – almost resistant to the contact. Then finally, with a long exhalation of breath, she allowed herself to relax against his side. Several seconds later she gave in entirely, letting her head rest lightly against his shoulder.

"Thank you Tchéky," she said quietly, her voice muffled.

"Hey, you don't have to thank me for anything. I'm your friend, remember?"

Eventually she nodded. "Yeah. Yeah, you know, I think I am starting to remember that."

For a long time they just stood like that, listening to the sounds of the river, looking out at the city lights. Eventually Tchéky cleared his throat. "Svet?"

"Tchéky?"

"I was just wondering. Since the accident have you done anything . . ." He seemed to be groping for the correct words. " . . . done anything just for fun? Just for your own enjoyment. For your own leisure and entertainment."

"For fun?"

"Er . . ." He scratched the tip of his nose. "Don't say I have to explain the concept of fun, Svet, please. It's just that all I've seen you do is work. Work and train and study."

"So you're saying I should have some fun."

"Yeah. Yeah, I am. I mean, I'm not asking you out on a date or anything," he hastened. "I'm not saying you should do it, whatever it turns out to be, with me. In fact it's probably best that you don't. Just do something that you enjoy. Go to the pictures; an art gallery; the ballet. Whatever. The what part doesn't really matter. But something that has nothing whatsoever to do with work."

She was silent.

"I think you used to quite like the ice hockey," he said after a moment, perhaps reading the reason for her hesitation.

"Ice hockey?" She raised an eyebrow and smiled slightly.

"I think SKA are playing at the Sport Palace this weekend. Against Lada Togliatti." He shrugged. "It's not really my thing."

"You know, I can't believe that – as a good Moscow girl – I could possibly have been a SKA supporter."

He smiled back at her and, after a moment, she nodded. "Maybe you're right Tchéky. Maybe I'll try and check out the ice hockey. I'll see if I can pick up a ticket."

"I guarantee, division can secure you a ticket."

She nodded again. There was another period of silence, this time slightly uncomfortable. Svetlana glanced down at her watch. "I should go Tchéky."

She was expecting him to protest, but he surprised her by just nodding. "You still thinking that you should quit fieldwork?"

She shrugged helplessly. That was the question, wasn't it?

"If it makes it easier I can speak to the Director for you. Recommend that you be transferred to analysis. In fact the more I think about it the more it seems the sensible option. The safe option." He started to turn away.

She caught his arm. "Tchéky? I'm good at what I do, right?"

After a slight pause he gave a single emphatic nod. "The best I've seen. Heard of too, for that matter. You know how Director Karpuchin said she was glad to have you back? That counted as absolutely ecstatic by her standards. She does not say that to just anyone, believe me."

She digested this. "Don't say anything about a transfer just yet, please Tchéky. I'll sleep on it. See what I feel in the morning."

"Whatever you want, Svet." 

"You want a lift?"

He shook his head. "Nah. I'm just five minutes away. The walk will clear my head." So saying he started to stride away, hands buried deeply in the pockets of his jacket.

For a time she watched after him. Then, when he had disappeared from view, she turned and got into her car.


	4. Build Me Up Buttercup

4. Build me up Buttercup

_She stood in what had obviously once been an office, though the destruction that had been inflicted resembled the work of a very intense and systematic tornado. There were no windows, and somehow she knew they were deep underground._

_ And that this place was very, very familiar._

_Across the room from her was a man, dressed in kevlar body armour and tactical assault gear. As she watched he pulled the balaclava he was wearing off and ran a hand through his short brown hair._

_Their eyes met. Locked. The world stopped. She almost forgot to breathe._

_They were walking towards each other across the wreckage, skirting overturned desks and shattered monitors, ducking under a light fitting that had half-fallen from the ceiling and was still sparking. At no point was there any conscious decision involved._

_Then they were embracing. Falling into each others arms._

_Physically it was awkward and lumpy and uncomfortable due to all the armour and gear they were both wearing. On a more important and fundamental level though, it was utterly, utterly wonderful. A vindication of everything. Their lips met. It was like she was drowning and this kiss was oxygen. It was not something that she wanted or needed. It was something she _required_. For so long she had been submerged, having to hold her breath or die, but now she had reached the surface. Finally she could breathe again._

_Somewhere someone was talking to them. Miles away. Aeons away. Entire universes away._

_"Hey, guys . . .? I just talked to base. We did it. We kicked their asses."_

_The voice was speaking English. American accented. The voice was a buzzing irrelevance._

_"Hey . . . guys? Did you hear what I said?"_

_The kiss went on and on. An end. A beginning._

_"Asses. Kicked."_

* * *

Svetlana woke in darkness, gasping. As consciousness returned the details of the dream started to bleed away, and the harder she tried to cling onto them the more diffuse and elusive they became. She concentrated on one detail. Held it tight.

Groaning, she swung her legs out of bed and sat up. Her hand came up to rub at her eyes, then swept the tangle of her hair back from where it fell across her face. The clock on the bedside table said 4:57 in luminous red digits.

Reaching across the table she turned a lamp on, squinting momentarily against the harsh electric glare. Then she stood up, stifling a yawn. She grabbed a robe from the back of a nearby chair and pulled it on against the slight chill that permeated the room.

Then she moved across to her desk and the row of shelves packed with box files that took up most of one wall. She started to look intently through the row of photocopied files. 

The face of the man in her dream still lingered.

* * *

"Hey, Svet. Good morning."

"Hey." She looked up as Tchéky pulled up a seat and sat down across the desk from her. After a moment she pursed her lips. "Tchéky, these files. Just how comprehensive are they? How much do they bear up to the reality?"

He looked at her curiously. "On cold hard facts they're reasonably comprehensive. On everything else . . ." He shrugged. "The nuance; the on the ground experience . . .. To be honest they're pretty much useless. Try reading what we put together on the Chebakov op. That should give you some idea of what I'm getting at."

She nodded – tucked a stray strand of hair back behind her ear.

"Why?" he asked.

A long pause. "I had a dream last night. I thought . . . I thought it might be a memory. Or at least . . . derived from a memory. I was in America a think. People spoke with American accents. I spoke with an American accent." She shook her head, frustrated. "I've been going over the files on all the American ops I've been involved in, seeing if I can make some memory spark – some detail tie up to the dream. Some tiny connection or correlation."

"And have you been able to?" He sounded like he already knew the answer to that.

"No."

"Svet, perhaps you'd be better off trying psych ops?" Tchéky's voice was hesitant. "I know you've had it up to the eyeballs with all their tests and therapies and crap, and their attempts at regression have been a washout. But if you have a detail from your dream – something they might be able to work with differently this time . . ." He trailed off.

"I'll . . . I'll think about it." The idea of going to psych ops with this filled her with an unaccountable dread though. She suddenly wanted desperately to change the subject – wished she had never even mentioned it.

Thankfully Tchéky changed the subject for her. "And the . . . other matter. Have you had any more thoughts on that?"

"I'm not going to put in for transfer." She spoke quietly and emphatically.

"Good."

"Good?"

He smiled. "Yeah, good."

"I thought maybe you were trying to guide me the other way. But . . . this feels like what I'm meant to do. It feels – I don't know – right somehow."

"Svet, I just want to see you happy again. I'll support you whatever you decide."

There was a somewhat uncomfortable pause. 

Tchéky forced a broad smile, placing down a file on the desk between them. "Right. Now that that's been decided, I was wondering if you wanted to come out with me tonight? I though we might, you know, hit the town. Pick up a bite of intel. Intimidate a contact or two. That sort of thing."

* * *

It was a karaoke bar, and to all appearances absolutely the definition of a seedy dive. At some point someone had tried to inject some glamour, but now the layer of tarnished gloss just went to emphasise the seediness.

Despite all this it was relatively crowded, and the clientele appeared rather more upscale than might have been expected. Mainly middle-aged business types accompanied by much younger – and scantily clad – mistresses.

Svetlana and Tchéky wove through the jostling crowds, heading towards a private table at the back of the main floor. Up on stage a ridiculously butch looking drag queen – stuffed into a silver lamé cocktail dress, fishnets and a towering red wig that resembled an elaborate topiary shrub – serenaded his audience in a warbling falsetto. Thick false eyelashes fluttered coyly behind a bright red fan.

_When a man loves a woman_

_Can't keep his mind on nothing else_

_He'll trade the world_

_For the good thing he's found_

As they neared the back table a tall, hulking individual with a shaven head and a heavy black moustache moved to block their path. Svetlana noted instantly the slightly odd way his suit hung on his heavily muscled frame – body-armour and a shoulder holster beneath his left armpit. _Bodyguard and enforcer_.

_If she's bad he can't see it_

_She can do no wrong_

_Turn his back on his best friend_

_If he put her down_

"I believe Gregor will see me." Tchéky's smile would probably have seemed amiable to someone who didn't know him. Svetlana prepared herself to take the man down.

_When a man loves a woman . . ._

"Gregor does not wish to be disturbed." Flat; emphatic.

_He'd give up all his comfort_

_Sleep out in the rain_

_If she said that's the way it ought to be_

"Tsk, it's his old friend. Mr. Romatsev. And I've travelled such a long way. Let him know that a mutual acquaintance was enquiring after his health. The two of us have so much to catch up on." Tchéky's smile just broadened. He seemed entirely oblivious to the stare the bodyguard was trying to wither him with.

_Well, this man loves a woman_

_I gave you everything I had_

_Tryin' to hold on to your precious love_

_Baby, please don't treat me bad_

"I told you. He doesn't want to be disturbed." Dark eyes were as hard as nails. "I think you want to find yourself another bar." The man lifted a hand . . .

_When a man loves a woman . . ._

Just before the hand clamped down on Tchéky's shoulder Svetlana caught his wrist tight. Her eyes locked with his as he turned on her in surprise, having apparently dismissed her as no threat. For a moment she thought he would try to hit her. Something he saw seemed to give him pause though. 

"Just let your boss know what my friend has just said. It will save trouble for all concerned," she told him.

_If she plays him for a fool_

_He's the last one to know_

_Lovin' eyes can't ever see_

The bodyguard pulled his wrist free of her grasp, holding her gaze for a couple seconds more. "For you lady . . ." He suddenly sounded surprisingly soft spoken and urbane. Touching his earpiece he spoke rapidly – nodded once as an answer came back. "Follow me."

_When a man loves a woman_

_He can do no wrong_

_He can never own some other girl_

"What did you do?" Tchéky mouthed to her as soon as the bodyguard's back was turned.

"Some people just have it, Tchéky. Others don't." Inwardly though she was puzzled too.

* * *

"The lab report on the manuscript has come back," Tchéky was saying.

Svetlana looked up from flicking through the file. She regarded him questioningly

"They think there are some pages missing from it."

"Oh? I took everything in Chebakov's safe, but I didn't really have chance to go over the rest of the office."

He smiled. "We don't think you missed anything Svet. We think it's more likely that Chebakov was double crossing – or at least short-changing – his buyers."

"The man we saw. The one who went into his office with him."

Tchéky nodded. "That's our best bet."

"So do we have any idea who he is yet? I know the facial recognition databases came up blank."

He reached across the desk and turned over a couple more pages in the file Svetlana was looking at.

"Tentatively – and I mean tentatively – we've identified him as Vitor Barbets. He's rumoured to act as a go between for certain parties of a . . . shall we say dubious nature. A broker and facilitator. Likes to keep a low profile. Which he does a pretty good job of it seems, given the minuscule amount we've managed to uncover about him."

"Who's this he's talking to?" She indicated a second man in the surveillance photograph. "Is he significant?"

"Ah yes. That's Gerard Cuveé."

Svetlana looked up at him. "I know that name, don't I?"

"Yeah." He grimaced. "The Kashmir op."

She nodded, recollecting what she'd read now.

"Originally a French national. Recruited by the KGB in the sixties. He's rumoured to have achieved a high level of seniority. Unfortunately his files rather conveniently disappeared from KGB headquarters in the chaos surrounding the collapse of communism, so we know rather less than we'd like." Tchéky stroked his chin, fingers rasping through the stubble on his jaw. "Currently leader of an organisation widely known as the People's Revolutionary Front. Sounds like your typical bunch of fanatic revolutionary terrorist nut jobs, right? And their low level operatives probably do think that's what they are. Cuveé operates on an altogether different level of subtlety and sophistication though. Still playing at being KGB spymaster, though strictly for his own benefit now. Some people just don't know when to let go."

"And he's still able to walk around freely, doing what he likes, even after Kashmir?" Svetlana's question was primarily rhetorical.

"You should have put a bullet in the back of his head when you had the chance. Sometimes it's the only way."

She looked at him sharply. "I'm not a murderer." That _did_ contain a hidden question.

Tchéky just shrugged. "After any length of time in this business you learn to be a pragmatist. You never liked it, but I think you accepted it. Justice is nice concept, but it never happens. Not against the big guys. Not against those that really matter."

She made a noncommittal noise, not really liking the implications of his answer. Her gaze dropped back to the photo. "So, is this recent? We think Cuveé has the missing pages?"

"That was our thought. The photo was taken yesterday, and Cuveé has a history of going after Rambaldi artefacts."

"Excuse me? Rambaldi?"

He snorted. "I forgot. We don't tend to put that in the files. For good reasons too if you ask me. Rambaldi was Pope Alexander VI's chief architect, ex-communicated for heresy, and executed in 1496. A bit of a Nostrodamus cum Da Vinci character supposedly. Some are convinced he's the genuine article. A real prophet, who drew designs for transistors, cellphones, advanced weapons systems and so on back in the 15th century. Yeah, yeah, I know. Don't look at me like that Svet. It's bollocks. I know that. But he's the big thing at the moment. Everyone seems to be on a Rambaldi hunt, trying to put together his master plan, or whatever. The high ups are rather firmly of the view that people like Cuveé should not be the ones to do that. Just in case, like. So right now, Rambaldi is a priority."

"I'm glad I asked," she said dryly.

"Anyway, yeah. We thought Cuveé had the pages. We've had him under close surveillance since Kashmir. That _did_ do his organisation serious harm, by the way Svet. You should know that. When we twigged that he'd met with Barbets, we had a commando team raid his St. Petersburg facilities in the early hours of this morning. Took him unawares, though the bastard still managed to get away."

"And?"

"No pages. We now think Barbets was using him as a decoy to cover the real transaction. He guessed he might have been compromised at Chabakov's party and he knew we were watching Cuveé – that we would jump on him at the first opportunity. Played us for idiots." He reached across to the file again, and turned another couple pages forward. "Thankfully we got lucky. Barbets made a phone call to this man. Gregor Todorov. What he didn't know is that Gregor is an erstwhile contact of mine."

"That is fortunate."

"Note I said erstwhile – so not quite as fortunate as all that. Tonight I thought I'd pay a visit to er . . . extract the relevant information from him. We're no longer on the best of terms, so I'd appreciate someone along as backup."

"Me?" She smiled, for some reason absurdly touched.

"No one I trust more." He returned the smile. "I'll be bad cop,"

"So that means I'm good cop, right?" She feigned a pout. "Smile prettily and flutter my eyelashes?"

He smiled. "No Svet. You get to be worse cop."

* * *

The drag queen reached the end of his performance. There was a smattering of desultory applause across the floor, though one large group clustered around three tables on the far side of the stage broke into exaggeratedly rapturous cheering, shouting 'encore!', 'encore!'

"Interesting performer," Tchéky commented. On stage the drag queen swept his vocal admirers an exaggerated curtsy.

"You think so? You should see some of the types we get in here." Gregor smiled, outwardly full of charm and bonhomie. He was a large teddy bear of a man with a round, unthreatening, almost baby face and thinning blonde hair. He embraced Tchéky, apparently warmly. "My friend, it is good to see you. It has been a long time, no?  Please, sit down. Have a drink. We can catch up on old times." 

To Svetlana the reek of his insincerity was almost as powerful as his aftershave.

"And who is this gorgeous creature?" Gregor oozed, looking past Tchéky, his gaze travelling lingeringly up and down her body in a manner that made her grit her teeth. "Your manners are amiss, my old friend."

"May I introduce Svetlana? She's an old friend."

"Hah! Not so old I think, unless my eyes are lying to me." As Gregor bent over to kiss her hand, she noted – slightly startled – that he was missing two fingers on his left hand, along with a sizeable portion of his left ear. "A sincere pleasure."

"All yours, I assure you," she purred. She was wearing a short platinum blonde wig, make-up emphasising the harder angles of her face, lips dark red.

Tchéky made a small choking sound, quickly smoothed over. "Svetlana graduated from the same school as Anna. You remember Anna, I'm sure, Gregor."

Suddenly Gregor complexion was almost as white as his shirt. He caught himself in the middle of taking an involuntary step backwards and glanced briefly at Svetlana's face – coolly impassive – before looking away quickly. 

The drag queen had returned to centre stage, apparently having been persuaded into performing a second number. He was drinking from a bottle of mineral water, adjusting the microphone in preparation.

They sat down. "When you mentioned a mutual acquaintance sending their regards you meant Anna then?" Gregor's genial façade had all but collapsed into nervous tension.

Tchéky gave a wolfish looking grin. "No. I don't think Anna has any regards for anyone at all. As well you know." He glanced pointedly at the hand with the missing fingers. "I was talking about Derevko."

He laughed, looking relieved. "Derevko's gone. Disappeared. Fell off a tall building, or so I heard. You'll have to do better than that Tchéky."

"Derevko has disappeared before so many times. Yet always – when you least expect it; least want it – she turns up again. Just like that and nastier than ever. I think she would have reason to question some of your activities of late, Gregor. Should she come to hear of them."

Gregor's genial, insincere smile had taken hold again. "Tchéky, Tchéky. Is this really how it has to be? Has our relationship degenerated to the point where we can only talk to each other in oblique threats? Now please, what is it you want? I'll do my best to help you, but let us try to be polite."

Tchéky glanced pointedly at the two attractive young women Gregor had been dining with, seated on either side of him. "Perhaps you might prefer to discuss this in private? You have an office round the back right? It might be more peaceful . . .."

Gregor glanced briefly again at Sventlana. She met his gaze with a small, enigmatic smile that had him blanching and looking away again swiftly. "Come now, Tchéky. I have shut up shop for the night. We are all friends here, and my companions are discreet. Say what you came to say, why don't you?"

"Vitor Barbets," Svetlana interjected, voice purring – seductive. "We have been lead to believe you can facilitate a meeting."

Gregor looked startled, though that was quickly smoothed away. Up on stage the drag queen cleared his throat. Music started to play and he began to sing.

_Why do you build me up Buttercup, baby . . .?_

"I think someone has misled you, my friends. This . . . Vitor Barbets? I'm afraid I know no one of that name."

_Just to let me down and mess me around_

_And then worst of all you never call, baby . . ._

"Gregor, Gregor," Tchéky was saying. He seemed suddenly to be talking from some distance away though. Svetlana felt like she'd been plunged into a bath of ice water. The music . . . the words . . .. She could scarcely draw breath.

_When you say you will but I love you still_

_I need you more than anyone, darlin'_

Tchéky and Gregor were still talking, though she couldn't hear a word of what they were saying. All there was was the song, lyrics pounding through her skull like nails being driven into a coffin lid. Scarcely aware of her own actions, she stood up abruptly, jostling the table and almost managing to spill all the drinks on it.

_You know that I have from the start_

_So build me up Buttercup, don't break my heart_

Conversation had stopped around the table and everyone was staring at her. Tchéky asked her something – if she was all right perhaps. She made a curtly dismissive chopping gesture with one hand and started walking. _Get away_. She was hyperventilating, gripped by panic. _Have to get away. Have to get away_ . . ..

"_I'll be over at ten", you told me time and again_

_But you're late, I wait around and then (bah-dah-dah)_

_I run to the door, I can't take any more_

_It's not you, you let me down again_

She reached a wall – by now entirely oblivious to her surroundings – and collapsed against it. Her shoulders were wracked by shudders. The song was the only thing in the world. Tears streamed down her face as if a floodgate had burst open, beyond her ability to stem. _No. No. Don't make me remember. I won't. I won't!_

Then the singing stopped. Somebody screamed. There was a gunshot.

* * *

Through a blurred veil of tears, the grim tableau in front of her was something strange and surreal. Time seemed to have frozen solid.

Gregor lolled back carelessly in his chair, seemingly about to fall out of it. At first glance it looked like he was wearing a bright red bib. A second look showed the drag queen's fan embedded deeply in his throat, blood staining the front of his shirt in a vast slick. The bodyguard sprawled on his back on the floor, caught in the act of rising. A bullet hole in the centre of his forehead made it look almost like he'd grown a third eye.

Tchéky had ducked down behind the table in an effort to find cover, and was in the process of drawing his handgun from an ankle holster. Gregor's two female companions appeared to be frozen into immobility in shock. The drag queen, having produced a pair of pistols from garters around his muscular thighs, was moving round the table to take the cover between him and Tchéky out of play . . .

Time resumed normal service. Mind still half-paralysed – operating solely on instinct and drilled in training – Svetlana went for her own Vector SR-1 service pistol in her handbag. 

The drag queen opened fire, hitting Tchéky in the arm and knocking his gun from his grasp, spinning away from him across the dance floor. Tchéky grunted raggedly, falling over onto his side. The drag queen moved in for the kill.

Svetlana fired off a snap shot without consciously aiming. There was a brilliant spark and a strangled yelp from the drag queen. One of the pistols flew from his hand.

He whirled on her, firing indiscriminently with his remaining gun as she dove full length, sliding into cover behind a hastily vacated table. People were screaming now, stampeding towards the way out. Abruptly the drag queen turned tail and ran, sprinting on three-inch heels for the stage left exit. 

Svetlana returned fire at his back but her aim was awry and she only managed to blast a couple of large holes in his towering red wig. She glanced towards Tchéky as she got to her feet. He was still on the floor, clutching at his wounded arm in an effort to stem the blood flow, his face twisted in a grimace. As their eyes briefly met he made a gesture to indicate he was okay – that she should get after the drag queen.

She moved to pursue.

Behind the stage there was a maze of dimly lit and dusty corridors that might have been difficult to navigate if it wasn't for the incessant clacking of the drag queen's heels ahead of her – a beacon to guide her path. Rounding a corner she was forced to duck back quickly as two bullets showered her with splinters of plaster, only inches from her face. 

Gritting her teeth, she leaned out of cover and returned fire, but her quarry was already gone. A door swung slowly closed behind him.

Beyond the door was a flight of stairs leading upwards, lit in ugly, flickering yellow-green. The drag queen's footfalls were still clearly audible, clicking loudly on the steps so Svetlana didn't have to pause to wonder if this was just a decoy. Looking up showed a flash of sliver lamé and beefy fishnet clad legs, pumping rapidly. She fired off a shot, but it ricocheted wide off a metal banister railing.

The drag queen fired back wildly into the stairwell, momentarily making Svetlana flinch back. Then she started to run after him.

On the floor above a door was just swinging shut, as if someone had passed through it a second or so earlier. The drag queen still hadn't cottoned to the fact that the heels he was wearing made his footsteps too loud for such a ruse to have a hope of working though. Svetlana ignored the door and carried on running up the stairs.

There were more gunshots from above. This time they weren't aimed down at her, clanging loudly off metal.

Rounding a corner onto the next landing Svetlana was just in time to see a flash of red and silver and the door leading out onto the karaoke bar's roof slam shut. She paused briefly, taking a deep breath. Then she kicked the door hard, firing a couple of covering shots and flattening herself against the wall in an effort to evade any incoming fire.

Nothing.

She scanned the night-lit roof quickly, her breath coming fast and leaving a very faint vapour trail on the cool air.

Out the corner of her eye she caught a glimpse of something bright red and whirled. 

A distraction. The bullet riddled wig sitting on top of an air-conditioning unit. 

Even as she was registering this she threw herself flat, bullets perforating the air were she'd been standing a fraction of a second earlier. Frantically she crawled back behind the door in an effort to find cover, asphalt chips stinging her legs from half a dozen near misses in quick succession.

Then there was a click – the drag queen's gun coming up empty.

Swiftly she sprang out of cover, pistol trained and ready. There was a flash of silver, the drag queen diving behind another air-conditioning unit.

She circled steadily, staying out wide so that she couldn't be taken by surprise and the angle of her vision would allow her to spot any sudden moves from him. "Throw away the gun. Come out with you hands above your head." She didn't honestly expect to be obeyed. She was also very conscious that police might be arriving any time now to investigate the commotion. That was a complication she could well do without.

The drag queen suddenly broke and ran, knowing that he was running rapidly out of cover. If anything, without the wig, he looked even more ridiculous then before – face obscured beneath a heavy pancake of make-up; short, fine blonde hair held back by a hairnet.

"Freeze!"

He ignored her. She aimed carefully and fired off a shot, hitting him in the shoulder. With Gregor dead she needed his assassin alive.

Blood flowered, spreading across the silver lamé and he staggered. He managed to keep on running though.

"Freeze! The next bullet will kill you!"

The drag queen threw a wild-eyed glance back over his shoulder at her but still didn't slow. He was rapidly running out of rooftop, and Svetlana realised suddenly that he intended to jump – across an alleyway onto an adjacent building. She aimed again and fired.

This time the bullet took him directly in the meat of the thigh.

She heard him gasp loudly in pain, but still he didn't go down. His gait became ragged and stumblingly uneven and his pace slowed dramatically, droplets of blood leaving a garish trail behind him. He kept going forward with a desperate single-minded determination though.

"Stop!"

He tried to jump. Despite the bullet in his leg he still tried to jump. All she could do was stare.

He didn't even come close to making it across the gap. There was a despairing wail and he plunged from view. A fraction of a second later there was a horrible crunching impact.

Numbly Svetlana lowered her pistol to her side. The adrenaline rush was fading and suddenly she started shaking. Slowly she walked over to the spot where the drag queen had fallen, staring queasily down at his broken body.


	5. Vaughn, Michael C

5. Vaughn, Michael C.

_There was a delicious sense of languid, liquid warmth. Early morning sunlight spilled in through the open curtains across the bed as she drifted on the edge of wakefulness. _

_Not that there had been any sleep during the night. Oh no._

_Her whole body seemed to ache, but it was a blissful ache. An ache she had not experienced in far, far too long. She stared across at _him_ through heavy lidded eyes._

_His eyes were closed. She thought from the rhythm of breathing that – like her – he wasn't quite asleep though, just drifting. For a time she simply watched him – listened to him – revelling in the quiet sensations, the wonderful closeness, feeling safe._

_The knowledge that she would have to get up soon – to move and break this wonderful spell was a tiny nagging itch in the back of her mind. Eventually she spoke. "How are we going to stay awake today?"_

_At the sound of her voice he smiled dreamily at her, eyelids flickering open. "Who cares?"_

_Their eyes locked, holding each other. She could feel the slight stirring of her heartbeat, the fractional quickening of her breathing, but her body told her that – for the moment at least – it was too raw and weary for any more _assertive_ response._

_He reached out, gently touching her shoulder. Her skin was warm, still slightly damp from their repeated couplings. Lightly he traced his fingertips down her back, dormant nerve endings stirring briefly in tiny flickers of delight._

_"Vaughn?" She asked after a long pause._

_"How come you never call me Michael?"_

She jolted awake. _Vaughn. Michael_. 

She clung onto that name as though her life depended on it even as the rest of the dream faded slowly away.

* * *

"I haven't thanked you yet for saving my life." Tchéky was neatly besuited as always, though this was marred slightly by the fact that his right arm was in a sling. He looked pale and perhaps slightly sickly in the meeting room's electric lights.

Svetlana looked away, not quite able to meet his eyes.

"How did you know? I never sensed anything at all. Not even a hint. The bastard caught me completely cold." He shook his head. "If it wasn't for you . . ."

"I didn't know anything." She cut him off. Her voice was quiet – only just audible.

"What?"

"I didn't know. I didn't sense anything. I was taken just as much unawares as you were." She swept a hand distractedly through her hair.

"But when you got up . . ."

She shook her head. "It was that song. That blasted song. I don't know . . ." Again a shake of her head. "It wasn't a flashback. Not really. But . . . I know that song somehow. From my past. When I heard it, it was like I couldn't breathe. Or think. Or anything else. It just overrode everything."

Tchéky looked at her and she could see disquiet in his eyes. After a moment he forced a smile. "But anyway, you still saved my life because of it."

"I screwed up." Her voice was hard. Angry. "Don't try to coddle me. Gregor's dead, and thanks to me so is his assassin." She started to turn away.

Tchéky put his good hand on her shoulder, stopping her. "What could you have done differently, Svet?"

"I could have tried to tackle him, after he ran out of bullets." She shrugged free of him.

"You had a gun. Hardly sensible to put it away, hmm? You put two non-lethal bullets in him when he refused to stop. You did all you could."

"Then 'all I could' is not good enough, is it?"

"Don't beat yourself up about it. We have a body. Forensics are doing an autopsy as we speak. Hopefully they can pull up some leads. Who he was for starters."

She let out a breath. Something else occurred – about the dream she'd had last night. "Did they have CCTV at the club?"

"On the entrance. We checked. Someone pulled the tapes." He didn't sound at all surprised by this fact.

A soft grunt. "Maybe some of that group cheering him on were accomplices. I can remember a few faces. I'll see if I can pull up anything from the identikit system. I've got a hand-to-hand session in a few minutes, but I'll do it straight after."

Tchéky just nodded. "Good idea. I'll keep you posted on any other leads."

She turned around and walked out. It had been surprisingly easy to tell a barefaced lie to him. Part of her was slightly disturbed by that.

* * *

"We may need to send her in for more reconditioning." Tchéky spoke quietly into his cell phone.

"Oh?" The distorted voice was as unreadable and unrecognisable as ever. "And what, pray tell, leads you to this rather . . . presumptive conclusion?"

"There was a song playing in the nightclub last night. She recognised it. Recognised it from before, I mean. It provoked a very strong reaction in her."

"Really?"

Tchéky got the impression that the voice was unimpressed by the revelation. "There was also a dream. A dream in which she remembers being in America. Remembers speaking with an American accent."

"And she told you all this voluntarily?"

"Yes," he agreed.

"There is nothing more?" the voice persisted.

"Not that she told me. But then, if she did remember more she might no longer trust me."

"If that were the case then she wouldn't have told you anything at all." There was a very short pause. "I don't see a problem. The conditioning cannot sweep away every trace of who she used to be. Not without destroying the very thing that makes her the weapon we need. There was always going to be the occasional detail that slipped through."

"So we do nothing?"

"The situation is manageable. Keep an eye on her. Report anything unusual right away. But for now any action would be premature."

"As you say," Tchéky agreed quickly, secretly relieved.

"What was the song you mentioned?" the voice inquired. 

Tchéky was slightly surprised. He'd been expecting the voice to just hang up. "Something old and cheesy. 'Build me up Buttercup', I think it's called maybe?"

"Ah yes." The voice sounded untroubled and completely unsurprised. "That _would_ provoke a reaction. Tell her this . . .."

* * *

Svetlana rained in kicks and punches on the heavy bag. Her face was tight, eyes fixed and focussed.

"Harder! Harder! More aggression!" It was unclear if the trainer's words even registered on her though. "Good. Good. Nice combination. Now go with it."

A spinning heel kick flowed into a sequence of fast jabbing punches that were almost too quick to follow. 

"Harder . . ." Another kick and trainer made gave a stifled _ooph_, apparently caught unawares by the force of it. Svetlana continued to rain in blows without pause.

Sweat poured down the side of her face. She was vaguely aware of a door opening behind her – of footsteps approaching behind her – but she ignored it. Her concentration was fully on the bag in front of her and the movements of her body, and she continued to deliver punch after punch; kick after kick. It was cathartic – a welcome distraction where all her other troubles could just disappear.

The person stopped just a few paces behind her. Svetlana ignored them, though she noticed an abrupt change in her trainer's expression and attitude.

After one more spinning heel kick he said: "Enough. That will do for today, Svetlana. A good workout."

He stepped back from the bag and left the gym with rather undue haste. Breathing heavily Svetlana bent over and retrieved a towel, using it to wipe the sweat from her hands and brow. Then she picked up a water bottle and took a long swig from its neck. Only after that, finally, did she turn around.

Standing in front of her was a woman she didn't know. 

She was black; very similar to herself in size and physique – possibly about ten pounds heavier. Long hair was pulled back from her face in a ponytail. She was attractive, but Svetlana was more interested in the way she stood – the easy poise and power she radiated. _Agent trained and very good at what she does_.

The woman lips curved in a slanted, slightly sardonic smile. Her eyes glittered with scarcely contained amusement. "Svetlana Borushka, right? We've met a couple of times before, briefly, but I don't think we've ever been properly introduced. I'm Anna Espinosa." She extended a hand.

They shook. Anna's grip was firm; perhaps overly so_. Are you the person that had Gregor Todorov terrified just with the mention of your name?_ "I think Agent Romatsev might have mentioned you in passing. You seem to have quite a fearsome reputation."

Her smile broadened, brilliant white teeth reminding Svetlana of something predatory. "I just do my job."

"Well it's a pleasure to meet you, Anna. I apologise if I seem a little . . ." She started as if to walk around Anna towards the exit.

Anna blocked her way, seemingly accidentally. "No need to apologise. I know about the accident. Losing all of your memories must be particularly hard."

She sensed this was more of a probe than an expression of concern or sympathy. "I'm coping. I've resumed field work."

"I heard." The smile was now most definitely disturbing, though it was difficult to pinpoint why. Again Svetlana started to walk away. "Perhaps you'd consider sparring with me? Bag work is all very well, but it gets a trifle . . . dull, don't you think? I'd consider it an honour to get some pointers from the person with the highest rating we've ever recorded."

_No_. That was what Svetlana intended to say. She had no intention of getting into any games of one-upmanship – and that was what this most definitely was, she sensed. What came out was: "Now?"

Anna shrugged. "Well you know what they say . . . no time like the present. I'll understand if you're too tired . . .."

"Okay." Again mouth overrode brain, which was telling her again to simply walk away.

The walked together to the centre of the mats, standing face to face, a few feet apart. After exchanging minuscule formal bows they both fell into defensive posture and began to slowly circle each other. The smile had gone from Anna's face, but Svetlana still had the distinct impression she was somehow still smirking.

With no change of expression, Anna exploded into action, aiming a flurry of punches at Svetlana's head and chest. The blocks flowed reflexively, and none of the blows got through, but by the end of it her forearms were bruised and aching from the force of the rapid impacts. Several quick, probing kicks were blocked shin to shin. Then a snaking jab finally found a way through Svetlana's guard, hitting her in the stomach with enough force to knock most of the breath from her lungs. She fell back rapidly, gasping to regain her breath.

Their eyes met as they resumed circling and Anna favoured her with a tight smile. This wasn't simply going to be sparring.

Anna came forward again, but this time Svetlana dropped her shoulder beneath the punch, grabbing her arm and using the woman's own momentum to throw her. Anna went with the move, somersaulting in mid air and landing – cat-like – on the balls of her feet. Immediately her foot snapped up towards Svetlana's head. 

Svetlana was already ducking though. She swept a heel round hard at Anna's ankles, but the woman managed to hop over the attack easily and deliver a powerful kick to Svetlana's right hip. 

She staggered back, limping badly, but managed to ward off or twist away from the flurry of kicks and punches that rained in, trying to take advantage. By that time she was breathing hard. Anna still looked as fresh as a daisy.

They circled once more. Svetlana tried to recapture some hint of initiative, launching a snapping kick at Anna's face. Anna was ready for it again, catching her and driving her bodily back down onto the mat. She tried to smash an elbow viciously down into Svetlana's ribcage to finish things off, but left herself open in the process. Svetlana arched her back powerfully, legs scissoring up around Anna's torso. The heel of one foot caught her in the face at the same time as the other foot kicked into the back of her head.

As Anna staggered backwards, Svetlana flipped herself agilely back to her feet. Blood was pouring from Anna's nose and any hint of a smirk was well and truly gone. She wiped a hand across her face and spat.

Svetlana went to punch her, but Anna caught her wrist, using it to swing her round in an effort to smash her face first into the wall. Svetlana simply used her momentum to run up the wall though, twisting in mid-air and letting her full weight fall back down in Anna's face. Anna countered by arching her back into a bridge as she toppled over backwards, throwing Svetlana off.

They came up together, and this time both of them were breathing heavily. Svetlana's lungs burned and she could feel the sweat pouring off her. As there eyes met Anna gave a single short nod. Acknowledgement.

As they grew tired their reactions slowed fractionally. More blows started to get through and the fight became less elegant and more brutal. An elbow to the side of Svetlana's head was answered by sharp kick into Anna's midriff. A raking kick down the back of Svetlana's thighs was followed up by a short flat-handed punch to Anna's jaw. 

A particularly intense flurry of action ended with Svetlana being thrown over onto her back. Anna tried to stamp down on her, but she managed to roll rather frantically away. A second stamp came even closer. Driven to desperation, Svetlana grabbed hold of Anna's ankle, using it as a pivot to swing her whole body round and sweep the woman's legs out from under her. 

They both flipped themselves back to their feet together.

Again they circled each other, both of them wary now – bruised and bloodied. 

The door to the gym opened. Neither looked around, concentrating solely on each other to the exclusion of all other distractions. 

"Anna. A word. Now." The voice belonged to Director Karpuchin.

Anna let out a breath and broke off. They exchanged another short bow at the centre of the mat. "We should do this again some time, Svetlana." Then she turned and walked away.

* * *

Svetlana stared at the composite face on the screen. _The man of my dreams_. Or from them anyway.

_Almost_.

She made a small adjustment to the spacing between his eyes, moving them slightly further apart. Frowning critically at the result, she moved them halfway back again a couple of seconds later. After a pause she narrowed the bridge of the nose ever so slightly, then broadened the forehead a fraction.

It was as near as she was going to get it. Awake the dreams were little more than a blur, like viewing everything through the bottom a half-empty wine glass.

Her finger hovered over the enter button. This was madness really. Paranoia. Chasing ghosts. No, worse than that, shadows from dreams that might never have existed. She was breaking all kinds of regulations too – misusing intelligence resources. 

But, in the end, it was all she had. She hit the enter key, submitting the composite against the facial recognition database.

The search took what seemed like an age. For a composite drawn from memory you had to – by necessity – set the error threshold very high, and inevitably you got a lot of false positives. Tension gnawed at her as she stared at the screen. Names appeared in the result box, reflecting in her face as they flicked past. Finally it was done. 1023 possible matches.

Scrolling back up to the top of the list, she stopped suddenly, scarcely daring to breathe. There. Potential match number 47.

Vaughn, Michael C.

Suddenly she was scared. Absolutely terrified. It was the song in the nightclub, all over again. She very nearly hit escape and turned the terminal off there and then. Part of her just wanted to run away.

Closing her eyes she pressed the heel of one hand hard against her brow. She sucked in gulping breaths of air, able to feel tears welling up in her eyes. Quickly, she blinked them away. _Do you want to stay blind forever?_

Using the mouse, her hand trembling just a touch, she selected the name and double-clicked. The photograph that popped up made her heart lurch. It was him. No question. 

Svetlana forced herself to stop staring at the photograph and read the rest of the information on the file. The information under employment in particular brought her up short. US Department of State. She read it again, just to make sure her mind wasn't playing tricks. US Department of State. She knew well enough what that likely meant.

The man from her dreams was real and not simply a figment. _Vaughn, Michael C_. And he was CIA.

She heard the door handle turn behind her and quickly hit the escape key twice in succession to exit out two levels up. Her heart was pounding, her palms damp with sweat. "Tchéky." She struggled to compose herself, hoping her voice didn't sound too odd.

He moved across the room to perch on the desk next to her. "Any luck?"

She shook her head. "I've put together a couple of composites, but . . .. Needle in a haystack. I could be at this for months and still not turn up anything useful."

He nodded – laid a comforting hand on her shoulder. Her instinctive reaction was to flinch away from him, but she managed to suppress it.

"I'll pass what I've done onto technical services. See if they can turn anything up." She shrugged. "That's their job right? What they get paid for."

He nodded a second time, but he seemed to be distracted by something. The hand on her shoulder moved and he lightly traced a bruise on her left cheek with the back of his finger. "You get that last night? I didn't notice this morning."

"It's nothing. I overdid it slightly in this morning's training session. It shows badly? I need to use more cover-up."

"It doesn't show badly."

She forced a smile, though it made it feel like her face was going to split into pieces and fall off. "So . . . How's the arm? I forgot to ask earlier." 

"Could be worse. The bullet missed the bone. I lost some muscle tissue but the doctor says I should get 90-95% use back. Maybe even full use if I'm lucky." He grimaced. "Doesn't help right now. I can't even hold a pen. Left-handed my writing looks like a three-year-old's."

There was a slightly uncomfortable lull.

"You know the song from last night?" he asked.

_Build me up buttercup_. "I don't really think I could forget it Tchéky." 

_Hah! Don't flatter yourself. You forgot everything else_.

"Well I did some checking." He suddenly looked . . . troubled? No, perhaps more sad.

"Oh?" She tried to sound casual, or at least vaguely human. "You shouldn't . . .. You didn't have to . . .. Did you . . . did you find anything?"

After a moment he nodded. "Yeah. Yeah. It seems . . . well it seems that your husband sang it to you when he proposed. Right in the middle of the Royal Park in Peterhof on midsummer's day."

"My husband." Her voice wavered. _Daniel Armanov_. She closed her eyes, trying to see his face. The only face that came though was the one from the dream. Michael Vaughn. Their eyes meeting as they lay in bed together.

Tchéky stood up, looking ill at ease. "Director Karpuchin's called a briefing. Ten minutes. That's what I really came to tell you."

"A briefing? We've got something on Barbets?"

He shook his head. "I don't know. The director didn't say." He sounded annoyed by that. "I guess we'll find out."

"I'll see you there." She logged out of the terminal and stood up.

* * *

As she entered the briefing room Svetlana stopped in her tracks. Anna Espinosa was already there waiting, sitting in the chair directly to the right of Director Karpuchin's. Their eyes locked, Anna favouring her with a smile and a nod. 

Trying to cover her surprise, Svetlana inclined her head a fraction in response and made her way to her own seat. Suddenly her brain was whirring. Something here wasn't entirely . . . normal.

Tchéky's reaction when he entered was even more starkly apparent. He stopped and stared, face pale and tight. Anna simply smirked in response. Svetlana looked from one to the other, trying to gauge what lay between them – aside from obvious mutual dislike.

"I wasn't aware that you were part of this team, Agent Espinosa." Tchéky's voice was cold; icily polite.

"She is now Agent Romatsev." Director Karpuchin entered the briefing room behind him. "Since your injury deprived us of one field operative she has been transferred in to join us. I'm sure you'll agree that we're lucky to have someone of Agent Espinosa's exceptional ability and experience joining us."

"I'm sure." Tchéky sounded anything but as he sat down next to Svetlana, still glaring at Anna.

"Since we're all here now, I won't waste anyone's time." Karpuchin walked around the table to stand in front of the main project screen. "We have managed to identify the body of Gregor Todorov's assassin. One Tomasz Krajcek – a Polish citizen, and highly regarded in his area of expertise." Svetlana was barely able to recognise the photograph that came up as the drag queen. 

The picture on the screen changed showing a petite and well-groomed brunette. "This is Julia Volkavitch. She acts as Krajcek's . . . booking agent, if you will. We picked her up a few hours ago, and under interrogation she has proved extremely co-operative. Some of the information she gave us – which has now been independently confirmed – gives us a shot at Vitor Barbets. The window of opportunity is small, and we have to move quickly on this one." Her gaze turned to Svetlana.

"Svetlana, you and Anna have already gotten to know each other, I believe? The two of you will be going in together on this one."


	6. Murder on the Trans Siberian Express

6. Murder on the Trans-Siberian Express

_Phfft._

The guard – walking with measured step across the moonlit trainyard – staggered, clutching his neck, before collapsing bonelessly_._

A slender black clad figure seemingly ghosted out of thin air, catching him beneath the armpits and lowering him silently to the gravel before his submachine-gun could clatter to the ground. The figure then proceeded to drag the body into concealment behind a rubbish filled skip.

The train – a heavily armour plated behemoth painted in dull khaki and olive camouflage started to pull slowly away, at first travelling at nothing more than a lazy walking pace. Wheels clanked and creaked, clouds of steam hissing softly in the cool air.

A second black clad figure darted from the cover of deep shadows, sprinting soundlessly, then leaping agilely onto the train's back end. The guard standing there, smoking surreptitiously and only half awake, didn't even start to turn around until a hand came over his shoulder and squirted something in his face.

His cigarette tumbled end over end, a flashing red ember in the dark night. The hand clamped over the man's mouth to prevent any unexpected outbursts before consciousness faded, then lowered his limp form silently.

By now the train was moving at the equivalent of an easy jog, accelerating steadily all the time.

The first figure sprinted rapidly to catch up, the second leaning out and extending an arm to catch her as she leapt. Both of them safely on board, the second figure bent down, rifling quickly through the fallen guard's pockets to retrieve his gun, code-key and comm. unit.

"All done?" The first asked.

Svetlana nodded shortly.

"Good." Anna levered her foot beneath the unconscious guard and casually tipped him off the train's back end. He hit the tracks with a dull thud, bouncing out of sight. "Get comfortable. Now we wait."

* * *

"The train technically belongs to the Russian Army, though General Yuri Moradin has commandeered it for his personal use. We've known for some time now that Moradin was corrupt, but it has been more advantageous simply to keep an eye on him than try to put him out of business."

Up on screen there was a high-resolution satellite photograph of a trainyard. At the centre of the picture was a massive armour plated train with half a dozen equally heavily armoured carriages attached.

"The rearmost carriage is a guardhouse with accommodation for twelve. It will normally travel with a full compliment, and intelligence gives us no reason to suspect anything different tonight. The guards are all Moradin's men. Ex-Army whose loyalty he bought off when their wages weren't paid for several months back in 93.

"The next two carriages are freight transport, and as far as we have been able to determine they should be largely empty. The front three carriages are luxury accommodation, including advanced server facilities and a satellite uplink. There will be two technical operatives on board, plus a four man catering staff, all of whom belong to Moradin and are military trained. Then we have your target. Barbets and two bodyguards, likely to be quartered in the frontmost carriage. Finally we have the driver and his relief." Director Karpuchin looked around the briefing room. "Any questions?"

"We're not expecting Moradin himself?" Svetlana asked.

"No. Moradin is in Moscow right now. We understand that he owes Barbets for a number of unspecified transactions and allows him to use of his train as a kind of payment in favour. Anything else? Good. You're both booked on a flight inside the hour. Barbets is due to meet up with the train in Novosibirsk at 10:00pm tonight and the train itself is due to depart at 11:00. You'll penetrate the trainyard's perimeter and board as it departs. Then you'll conceal yourselves and wait."

The director flicked a button on a hand unit and the image on screen changed to display a lower resolution satellite photo of a section of track somewhere in Siberia. "You'll wait until you reach this position before making your move. Barbets won't be able to summon back up to that location inside of two hours, and we'll have a support team waiting in place to extract you by helicopter at fifteen minutes notice. The train should reach here at approximately 3:00am if everything goes to schedule."

* * *

The co-ordinates on the GPS terminal ticked over steadily before Svetlana's eyes. Her watch said it was 3:04am.

She lay flat on her stomach atop the roof of the train's rear carriage, wind buffeting her hard in the face. A couple of yards ahead of her there was a hatch that gave entrance to the carriage below. To either side were low, forested hills, seeming to stretch out endlessly, no hint of civilisation to be seen in any direction save for this railway track. Overhead clouds scudded rapidly across an inky midnight-blue sky, pale silver shafts of moonlight intermittently penetrating the overcast.

The co-ordinates hit the value she was waiting for. "We're entering the target zone. Confirm readiness to move." The wind noise drowned out her voice before it had gone more than a couple of yards, but her microphone picked it up easily enough.

"Ready." Anna's voice came back immediately, coolly professional.

Svetlana put the GPS away, then reached down and unhooked the tether around her waist that anchored her in place. The train had slowed significantly over the last five miles as it traversed a huge looping bend in the track so it was relative safe to do so. Pulling out a small remote-control unit with a slim black-gloved hand, she flicked a couple of buttons on its top.

Directly ahead of her there was a loud crack accompanied by a brief, brilliant flash of light. A pair of micro-charges blew out the bolts holding the roof hatch shut and it fell inwards with a clatter. Crawling forward swiftly, she pulled the pin from a large metal canister and dropped it into the gap. Thick clouds of gas billowed from it as it fell.

Pulling a gasmask from her pack, she slipped it on over her head, counting beneath her breath. From inside the carriage came a couple of stifled yells. These were followed moments later by heavy thuds.

As the count reached twenty she moved again, swinging forward gracefully through the hatch and landing cat-like on her feet.

Infrared goggles enabled her to see through the clouds of smoke inside the carriage. There were slumped bodies all around her. Six, she counted quickly, three of them caught asleep on their bunks, another three fallen from chairs, apparently in the middle of a card game.

She caught the movement of a seventh figure out of the corner of her eye. He was on his hands and knees, a towel wrapped around the lower half of his face as he groped blindly through the smoke towards a rack containing four Abakan AN-94 assault rifles, coughing violently. Moving quickly before he became aware of her presence she kicked him in the side of the head.

Another look round confirmed that everything was well. "Carriage secured."

Immediately the door at the back end of the carriage opened and Anna walked in, also wearing a gasmask. She walked down the carriage quickly, gaze sweeping from side to side. "We're missing two."

Svetlana had reached the same conclusion, counting a total of nine bodies. She nodded. 

Anna strode past her, oozing confidence. "Get my back."

* * *

The next carriage appeared to be deserted. There were packing crates secured against one wall but no sign of any other occupation.

Anna moved ahead through the gloom, a silent and deadly shade. Several steps back Svetlana had her pistol drawn, suppressor fitted, barrel point towards the carriage's ceiling – a slightly out of kilter shadow.

As they reached the end of the carriage voices could be heard faintly beyond the door. The noise of the train drowned out the exact words, but the tone of the conversation didn't seem to contain any urgency. They contained a level of desultory boredom that didn't fit with someone who was trying to raise an alarm.

There was the sound of a door opening. Anna moved to one side of this carriage's door, waiting poised and Svetlana simply stopped moving, merging into the shadows and seeming to vanish.

"And tell Yevgeny he can suck my . . ." The door slammed shut again, drowning out what exactly Yevgeny could suck, though the inference was obvious. 

Then the door to this carriage opened. 

A guard walked in, head down, hands deep in the pockets of his coat. Anna stepped out behind him, smoothly looping a wire garrotte around the man's throat, stamping down on the back of the man's knees to drop him and take away his height advantage, then pressing her own knee hard into the small of his back to increase her leverage.

He tried to struggle, but the garrotte had already bitten deep. As blood sheeted down his throat he made a thin, gasping, whining sound.

The carriage door opened a second time. 

"Wait up, Yegor. You forgot . . ." The voice choked off abruptly as the speaker caught sight of Yegor and Anna.

As he fumbled with his Kiparis submachine-gun – which in his haste he'd manage to get tangled in his coat – Svetlana leaned around Anna and shot him twice in the chest. He toppled over backwards even as Anna was lowering the now motionless Yegor to the floor.

She looked up and favoured Svetlana with a short nod that might have been thanks.

* * *

Svetlana slipped the keycard into the lock. After a fraction of a second the LED next to it flashed green and there was a click.

Anna immediately kicked open the door, barging through. There was a startled yelp from inside, cut off quickly by the sound of two suppressed gunshots. _Phfft, phfft_.

"Hey . . ."

_Phfft, phfft_. Another two suppressed gunshots were followed by silence. By the time Svetlana entered the control room it was all over, two dead bodies slumped over a pair of control consoles.

"Glad you could join me," Anna said dryly.

Svetlana ignored her, moving quickly to the nearest console and trying to ignore the sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. The man Anna had shot looked to be scarcely into his twenties, facedown on the keyboard, wire-rimmed glasses fallen half off. Gingerly she shifted the body aside just far enough to allow herself access.

The terminal was already logged on, so she didn't need the hack chip Sergei had provided. Using the trackball to flick rapidly through the system menus, she began to power down the security systems that guarded the main living quarters.

Across from her, Anna perfunctorily tipped the body of the second technician out of his chair. Pulling a remote modem from her pack, she clamped it in place on top of the monitor, and then typed something quickly into the keyboard. "Base ops, this is Lonewolf. Ready to transmit."

There was a crackle of static. Then. "Copy, Lonewolf. Ready to receive."

"Uploading server contents now." Anna pressed enter.

"Upload received. Estimated transfer time twelve minutes."

"Acknowledged, base ops. Twelve minutes. Resuming radio silence." Anna glanced across at Svetlana. "Well?"

"Security systems disabled. I've locked down the rear two carriages so we don't get any surprises from that direction. The safe isn't connected to the central computer though. We'll need another way in." Svetlana's voice was brisk – businesslike.

Anna nodded impassively. Both of them had been inwardly expecting this eventuality. "And the power system?"

"Ready to be brought down. It may alert anyone still awake that something's wrong if I disable it before we're ready to move in."

"Do it now." Anna's voice was flat.

"The upload . . .?" Svetlana started.

" . . . will take care of itself. We move in now."

Svetlana just nodded wearily, not willing to start an argument about it. Besides, Anna was right. They needed to get the train stopped before the twelve minutes were up if at all possible. "Powering down now."

Anna was already moving. Svetlana followed quickly on her heels.

* * *

Svetlana burst through the door.

Lying on the lower bunk, the man made a low groaning noise as he stirred from sleep. His eyes went as wide as saucers as he dimly made out the black clad figure standing over him, but before he could make another sound Svetlana elbowed him hard in the face, snapping his head back against the headboard. He was already unconscious, but she sprayed him in the face to make sure he stayed that way.

_Phfft, phfft._ Across the corridor she heard two more suppressed gunshots as Anna chose a rather more ruthlessly terminal method of dealing with her opponents. They where slightly louder than before as the efficacy of the suppresser slowly faded with repeated use.

As they met up again Anna held up two fingers. Svetlana held up one finger in answer. Both knew without saying that that still left one member of the catering crew unaccounted for.

"Is there a problem back there? I heard something . . .." The bodyguard, entering through the far end of the carriage, flicked a light switch. Nothing happened, the carriage remaining shrouded in darkness. "What the . . .?"

Anna whirled and fired off a snap shot. The bodyguard was already scrambling for cover though and the bullet clipped his shoulder rather than taking half his head off. His gasp of pain drew another couple of bullets, but they only managed to raise puffs of stuffing from the padded leather couch he'd ducked behind.

A second or so later he fired blind round the side of the couch back at them. Both Anna and Svetlana had already taken cover in the doorways they'd just emerged from so the bullets went harmlessly wide. Unsuppressed, and echoingly loud in the close confines of the carriage, these would have alerted anyone else still conscious on the train.

"Cover me," Svetlana hissed across to Anna. She heard the bodyguard start to speak urgently into his radio and thumbed a frequency-jammer to cut him off in a squall of static.

Anna gave no verbal acknowledgement but leant round the doorframe, emptying the remaining six bullets in her clip in a tight, accurate pattern next to the bodyguard's hiding place.

As she did so Svetlana darted out of cover, sprinting forward. She ran down one side of the carriage to minimise her exposure, leaping up on to a chair, then running from tabletop to tabletop, breathtakingly surefooted. As she ran out of tables she launched herself into a flying leap towards the sofa.

She landed feet first on the sofa's back, a human missile. There was a loud splintering crack as the bolts securing the sofa in place were torn from their anchor points by the impact, and the sofa toppled over backwards.

Caught completely by surprise the bodyguard could only manage an anguished wail – swiftly cut off – as the sofa, Svetlana atop it, smashed down on him, crushing him to the floor.

Anna walked calmly forwards and stamped on the bodyguard's exposed head to make sure – though it was probably completely unnecessary. "Nice moves," she simply said.

Before Svetlana could respond the carriage door burst open. Submachine-gun fire cackled with no pre-emption or challenge. 

Outside the field of fire, Svetlana flung herself tight against the wall. Anna tried to do likewise, but took at least two bullets in the chest, sprawling over backwards in a heap. She was wearing body-armour, but Svetlana couldn't tell whether it had held or not.

Barbets' second bodyguard didn't seem aware that he had an opponent still standing. He stepped through the door and moved to stand over Anna's supine form, apparently intent on making sure she was definitely dead.

Svetlana moved. The bodyguard started to turn, apparently catching a flicker of motion in the corner of his eye. 

Too late. Her foot snapped into his wrist, knocking the gun from his grasp and sending it clattering against the wall. Then she punched him in the jaw, sending him reeling away from her but not managing to put him down.

Spitting a mouthful of blood, he charged back at her. She snapped a kick up towards his midsection, but his bulk and momentum barrelled him right through the blow and his shoulder smacked hard into her stomach. Their combined momentum sent them tumbling back over the upended sofa.

He landed on top of her, the impact enough to blast the breath from her body. She tried to swing a knee into his groin but lacked the leverage to generate any real power behind it. Instead she used the heel of her hand to lever his head back, then head-butted him hard in the middle of the face, crunching his nose flat. His grip on her didn't slacken in the slightest though, and he was considerably stronger than she was, shaking her violently. A punch to the stomach left her gasping, and he started to pummel her with brutal efficiency.

Suddenly, without warning, he went limp, collapsing lifelessly on top of her.

Groaning in pain as she struggled to draw breath, Svetlana saw Anna standing over them. She calmly pulled her combat knife from the back of the man's neck, wiping the blood from its blade on his jacket. Straining with the effect, Svetlana rolled his two-hundred and fifty pound bulk off of her, then pulled herself somewhat gingerly to her feet.

Anna was already turning her back on her, showing no outward ill affects from being shot. Moving forward swiftly she threw a handful of flashbangs through the door to the next carriage, then rolled through after them.

Again Svetlana followed.

* * *

The first bullet missed Anna so wildly that it blasted out one of the carriage's windows, letting in a roaring blast of wind and noise. The second – Barbets still dazzled from the flashbangs with his nightvision completely shot – missed by an even greater margin, slamming into the ceiling.

There was no chance of a third bullet. Anna knocked the gun from Barbets' grasp then backhanded him hard across the face, knocking him sprawling across the bed. He tried to kick out at her, but she simply caught hold of his leg. A sharp twist to the right produced a very nasty snapping sound. Barbets screamed piercingly, but the roaring from the shattered window almost managed to drown it out.

Before he could react any further Anna had grabbed hold his wrist, yanked it up over his head, and handcuffed it to the bed frame.

"My leg! My leg! You fucking bitch! What have you done to my leg?" 

He groaned, almost shrieking in pain, sweat pouring from his face. Anna backhanded him casually across the face again to shut him up. She glanced back at Svetlana. "Go stop the train. I'll get the information we need."

For a moment Svetlana, looking at Barbets on the bed, hesitated. His face was taut and sweating, and he wasn't quite writhing because even that amount of movement hurt too much. Instead he just lay twitching and spasming. Finally she nodded reluctantly, feeling something sick and ominous in the pit of her stomach. "Okay."

"What do you want from me," she heard Barbets saying – pleading – as she walked away.

"Co-operation," was Anna's reply.

The door closed behind her. A second or so later there was a muffled cry of pain that sent a shiver down her spine. Svetlana stopped. For a moment she almost turned back and confronted Anna, but then she gave a small shake of the head. She had a job to do, and if you had a job you did it. You didn't put other agents at risk. You didn't put the mission at risk.

Besides, Vitor Barbets was hardly an innocent. She tried to tell herself that.

There was a second cry, louder and more ragged than before. "Please! Please!"

Svetlana gritted her teeth, walking past an open door to what looked like a storage cupboard on her left and continuing down the carriage. As she opened the door at the end, between the carriage and the main engine, roaring wind noise and the clanking of wheels on track drowned out the sounds of interrogation behind her.

For a moment she paused, watching the engine in front of her for any sign that the driver or his relief were aware of what was going on behind them. Nothing. She went to work.

Dropping into a crouch she took a small packet of C4 explosive and a detonator charge from her backpack, handling them with utmost care. The train tracks passing by below, just a couple of yards in front of her face, were strangely hypnotic as she began to rig the C4 to the coupling between carriage and engine.

She was almost done. Just the detonator charge to attach. Behind her came the sound of a pistol safety being disengaged. "Don't move."

Svetlana froze. She remembered the open door she'd walked past – the fact that one of the catering staff was still unaccounted for – and cursed herself for an idiot beneath her breath.

"Hands where I can see them." The man's voice was hard, though Svetlana detected a fractional quaver underlying it. He was afraid. He was also standing about five yards behind her – too far away to tackle without getting shot several times in the process. 

"Good. Now, you have a gun." It wasn't a question, she sensed. "Take it out nice and slowly. Slowly I said! No sudden moves!"

Breathing deeply Svetlana did as she was told. 

"Now slide it back towards me. Do it now!"

Svetlana nodded, surreptitiously attaching the detonator charge she was still holding to her pistol's magazine – setting it with a three second delay. Then she slid the pistol hard back towards him so that it only came to a rest when it hit his feet.

"Hands on the back of your head."

The detonator beeped.

"What the . . .."

Svetlana braced herself as the detonator exploded, ripping the pistol magazine open and shredding the man's shins in a spray of hot shrapnel. He screamed. Svetlana felt something like a giant fist shove hard into her back, knocking her forward. 

She barely managed to catch herself, lying face first across the coupling, train tracks passing by rapidly only inches from her face. Behind her the man was groaning in pain. Heart thudding, adrenaline rushing through her veins, she quickly crawled back to safety then jumped to her feet.

The man – bleeding copiously from his shredded legs – was trying to crawl towards his dropped gun, knocked several yards back inside the carriage. She intercepted him, kicking the pistol out of reach then kicking him in the side of the head to render him unconscious.

Turning away from him, she returned to the explosives. She took a second spare detonator charge from her backpack and, hands shaking ever so slightly, attached it to the C4 charge. Taking a deep breath, she set the fuse for ten seconds then darted quickly back inside the carriage, slamming the door shut behind her.

The bang was muffled – surprisingly insignificant. The clanging and shrieking of tortured metal that followed was less so.

After several seconds, taking gulping breaths to try and calm herself, Svetlana forced herself back to her feet to check that the explosives had done their job. 

Opening the carriage door she was greeted by a shower of bright orange sparks and flinched back, raising an arm to protect her eyes. Already the train engine had pulled away about fifty yards and the gap was growing rapidly. The broken coupling mechanism had fallen down and was being dragged along the track, causing the flying sparks. The carriages were still on the rails, decelerating steadily, as Sergei had assured her they would be. She turned away.

Her attention returned to the unconscious man. Bending down beside him she inspected his injured legs. He was bleeding heavily and both shins appeared to be fractured. On the bright side it didn't appear that any arteries had been severed, but she could see that several splinters of sharp metal shrapnel were still deeply embedded in his flesh. Flinching slightly, she started to try and bind the wounds, staunching the blood flow as best she could in an effort to keep him from bleeding to death.

Minutes passed as she worked – trying to ignore the nagging voice that told her it was pointless. That he was going to die anyway, whatever she did. Then there came another piercing scream.

* * *

For several long seconds Svetlana just stared. The world around her seemed strange and slow, as if she had somehow become detached from it. It was like she had inadvertently slipped through a crack leading out of the waking world and into a nightmare realm.

There was blood. So much blood that it didn't seem immediately possible.

Formally pristine white bedsheets were now an ocean of redness. The front of Vitor Barbets' shirt was in tatters, and it looked like a complicated relief map had been carved into his exposed chest, drawn in thin red cuts. After blinking a couple of times, she realised his left hand had been severed at the wrist, and blood was still oozing thickly from the raw stump. Somehow he was still alive, chest rising and falling rapidly in thin, wheezing gasps. His face looked gaunt – greasy and pale. Dark eyes stared up at the ceiling.

The roaring and the wind from the broken window was lowering in volume and force steadily. The slowing of the train seemed synonymous with Vitor Barbets' life draining away.

Finally she tore her gaze away – looked at Anna.

Anna was across the other side of the carriage, calmly cleaning out the safe. In one hand she held something partially wrapped in a cloth. It took Svetlana a second or so to realise it was Barbets' severed hand. As she watched, Anna tossed it casually back onto the bed where it lay like a huge pallid spider.

"What the hell did you do?" Her voice rasped weirdly as she spoke. She felt the urge to gag – vomit.

Anna just looked at her calmly, as if to say: _what's the fuss_. "The lock required a scan of his palm to open it."

Svetlana gaped. She was lost for words, scarcely able to comprehend. Without any conscious decision being involved she suddenly had the pistol she'd retrieved from the man who'd tried to ambush her pointed at Anna. "Then you uncuff him and force him to open it."

"He was being uncooperative. Uncuffing him was too much of a risk." Calm as you like.

"Too much of a risk," Svetlana repeated blankly.

"A judgement call, and one I stand by." Anna shrugged. "Now if you're not going to shoot me . . .?"

Gritting her teeth angrily, Svetlana lowered the pistol to her side.

"Perhaps you could use that on him instead? It'd be a kindness. More merciful than just waiting for him to bleed to death."

Svetlana holstered the pistol – kept on staring at Anna coldly.

"If you don't have the stomach for it . . .." Anna pulled her own pistol, slamming a new eighteen round clip home, then aimed at Barbets. He tried to raise himself, but was too weak to do so. The two shots she fired were so loud it scarcely seemed that the weapon had a suppresser fitted at all anymore.

Vitor Barbets fell back, twitched a couple of times, and was still. The sharp, bitter tang of cordite mixed in with sweet, coppery reek of blood. Svetlana felt her stomach flipping over.

The train finally came to a complete standstill. Svetlana started to walk past Anna.

Without warning, Anna pounced, grabbing hold of Svetlana and slamming her hard back against the carriage wall. Before Svetlana could react – could start to struggle, Anna had her bloodstained knife pressed against her cheek, almost but not quite firmly enough to draw blood. Their eyes locked together. Anna's breath was warm on her face. "Next time you pull a gun on me I suggest you follow through and pull the trigger." Her voice was whisper soft – deathly.

Svetlana said nothing. They simply kept staring into one another's eyes. Neither woman blinked. Neither woman flinched. The knife blade gleamed softly.

* * *

Svetlana stared out of the helicopter's window, down at the trees passing by several hundred metres below. She felt numb and lost, more unsure than ever about everything. The image of Vitor Barbets' tortured body – his vacantly staring eyes – was there every time she closed her eyes. Surely this wasn't who she was.

She glanced across at Anna, feeling a low, simmering anger – almost a hatred. The woman had her back to her and didn't seem to be aware of her scrutiny. She was looking back behind them at the train, burning on the tracks in the distance.

Her smile, reflected in the glass, was surrounded by a shifting wreath of flames.


	7. Something Missing, Something Found

7. Something Missing. Something Found.

"So, did you get to go to the ice-hockey then?"

Svetlana just blinked at Tchéky, completely loosing her train of thought. "Pardon?"

"The ice-hockey," he prompted. "Are you all right Svet?"

She rubbed a hand across her eyes, stifling a yawn. "Um, yeah. I'm fine. Didn't get much sleep last night." She tried to focus. "Er, the ice hockey? Yes I went." She shook her head. "I don't know. Maybe I used to be a fan, but . . . I found it hard to get involved. Something . . . something was missing, I think."

_Something was missing_. That, she thought wryly, could be applied to so much of her life right now. 

"Sorry to hear that."

"Oh, it wasn't a complete loss. It was good to get away for a while. You were right about that much. I think the problem's me. I still feel lost when it comes to everyday things."

"If you need anything, Svet  . . ."

"I know. I know." She forced a smile. "I only have to ask." As she looked at him though, she couldn't help but wonder what he was hiding from her. The only thing she could see in his face appeared to be concern for her though. "Thank you, Tchéky."

He looked down – scratched the tip of his nose. "Director Karpuchin sends her congratulations for a job well done by the way. A written commendation will be attached to your file."

Svetlana just looked at him numbly.

"Yours and Anna's too." He held up a hand to stay the outburst he knew was coming. "Yes, I know. I know. I read what you wrote in the report, and I don't particularly like it any more than you do. But you have to face it. To the high ups results are what matters. She delivers results, so her methods are overlooked."

"She tortured a man to death, Tchéky! She cut his hand off while he was still alive to save herself a minor inconvenience." She folded her arms tight across her chest, looking away from him.

"He was hardly a good man. He's implicated in scores of deaths, and criminal activity that has brought misery to thousands."

"But he didn't deserve that! No one deserves that." Svetlana's voice was heated.

Tchéky raised his hands. "Look Svet, I'm just playing devils advocate here. Saying what others will no doubt say. Believe me, I've been in this position before. And I know just what kind of a nut job she is. But I also know that no one is going to do anything about it. This is not a battle you want to fight."

"So absolutely nothing is going to happen? We endorse what she did as acceptable action. Torturing someone to death for the hell of it is just fine." She sounded borderline incredulous. "How exactly does that make us any better than the enemy we're supposed to be fighting?"

Tchéky just looked at her unhappily.

She sighed. "I should have stopped her. I knew what she was going to do. Part of me did at least. That makes me just as guilty as her."

"That's ridiculous." He shook his head emphatically. "You aren't responsible for her actions. How could you have stopped her?"

"I could have shot her."

For a moment he gaped at her, genuinely taken aback. "Svet, I know you're upset . . ."

"Damn right I'm upset." She walked past him, heading for the door. There, briefly, she paused. "I'm going for a walk. Clear my head. I've been waived active duty for a couple of days, right?"

He nodded. "Yeah, you have a couple of days off."

"Good." Then she was gone.

* * *

She was being followed. That in itself was nothing surprising. Indeed Svetlana would have found it considerably more surprising if she wasn't being tailed by someone.

What was odd was that there appeared to be two separate groups doing the following. The joint taskforce mob were just as ham-fistedly predictable as ever, easy to spot in the bustling marketplace due to the fact that were wearing business suits that weren't exactly ideal for blending into the rest of the crowd. Over the past few weeks she'd come to identify six different men who had apparently been assigned to watch her whenever she was away from headquarters in rotating shifts. Today's pair were the ones she'd christened Larry and Moe.

She moved to stand beside a stall selling cheap looking necklaces, not because she had any intention of buying anything, but because she found it mildly amusing to see Larry stop suddenly and try to appear fascinated by the contents of a flower stall.

The stallholder tried to sell her one of the necklaces, but she held up a hand in refusal, shaking her head and walking on. "No. Not for me."

The second lot were much more surreptitious about what they were doing. Their dress sense was right for a start, and Svetlana was willing to bet that Larry and Moe weren't even aware of their presence. She didn't look directly at the shortish, moustachioed man in the battered old brown leather jacket, but steered her path casually towards him, curious to see how close to him he'd let her get. 

Not very close, as it happened. He glanced down at his wristwatch, expression irritable – as if someone had been supposed to meet him there but was late – then strode off quite rapidly without looking at her once. No doubt the slightly plump, matronly looking woman Svetlana had identified as his partner was even now moving back into position.

For the next half hour she wandered around the market more or less aimlessly, browsing from store to store, buying the occasional knick-knack as whim took her. It was a cool crisp, pleasant morning, the sky overhead a clear azure dotted with fluffy white clouds, and it was enjoyable to just wander. In a strange way it was also enjoyable observing the antics of her tails as they struggled to remain unobtrusive.

Slowly a plan formed.

At first she tried to dismiss it, but it wouldn't go away, nagging at the back of her mind until she knew she was going to go through with it. Despite the fact that it was almost certainly a stupid thing. Despite the fact that it would almost certainly end up getting her in trouble. Doing something was better than doing nothing.

She moved on from the marketplace choosing a street more or less at random. It was the man with the moustache and brown leather jacket who picked up her tail again rather than the matronly woman. The nearest suit to her was Moe.

After about five minutes walking, looking in shop windows, she found what she was looking for. She stopped abruptly in front of a clothes shop, and the man with the moustache was forced to walk past her to avoid giving himself away. As she'd hoped he turned into the convenience store right next to the clothes shop, and, after a couple of seconds, she followed him.

The convenience store had two entrances. The one she'd just used facing onto the street and a second one opening onto a mini-mall. Moe, predictably, came inside after her to ensure that he wouldn't lose her if she took the exit he wasn't watching.

Svetlana picked up a shopping basket, and moved steadily down the aisles, occasionally putting something into the basket. Brown leather jacket was doing similar several yards ahead of her, giving no sign that he was aware of her presence.

Moe's attempts at shadowing her were almost laughable, but she pretended to ignore him. She wondered briefly if even her shopping list was reported back to headquarters.

Glancing quickly over her shoulder, checking to make sure Moe could see exactly what was going on, she made her move.

She chose an object from the shopping basket – a toothbrush – and concealed it in the palm of one hand. Then she started walking briskly, right up behind brown leather jacket's back. As she passed him she slipped the toothbrush into the pocket of his jacket, making sure as she did so that the move was obvious enough to anyone standing behind her, watching.

Brown leather jacket looked round reflexively at the slight, unexpected contact between them, further sign-posting what had happened. Svetlana kept on walking briskly, as if nothing untoward had occurred.

To Moe it would look like a slightly clumsily executed drop-off. Which would rather put a damper on his nice easy morning's work, and presented him with an interesting dilemma as to what to do next. 

Moe bit, and better than she could have hoped. He went for the gun holstered beneath his left shoulder. "Hey! You! In the brown leather jacket. Don't move!"

Brown leather jacket, of course, did exactly the opposite, breaking into a darting run and pulling down a stack of baked bean tins behind him with a tremendous clatter. Moe squeezed off a shot, missing his target and perforating several milk cartons. Somebody screamed. When he tried to run after brown leather jacket he trod on one of the fallen tins and went sprawling onto his hands and knees, his gun flying from its grasp.

Larry, seeing the sudden uproar from outside, charged in to assist his partner. 

Under cover of the confusion Svetlana ditched her shopping basket and made for the mini-mall exit. Out of the corner of her eye she spotted the matronly looking woman, moving quickly away from the scene, and walked swiftly in the opposite direction.

Ten minutes later Svetlana allowed herself to stop and get her bearings. For an hour or two at least she was out of headquarters, without a tail. And she knew exactly what she was going to do with that time.

* * *

"Hello doctor. I need you do something for me."

"Who the hell are you? How did you get in here?" Doctor Alexei Mikhailov jolted violently, his Adam's apple bobbing in a manner that made him resemble a startled and rather scrawny looking turkey.

Svetlana reached calmly around him and swung the door shut behind him. An attractive, smartly dressed woman radiating the correct amount of confidence and certainty that she had every right to be where she was rarely found herself being challenged, certainly not by something as lax as Russian hospital security. She didn't bother to explain that to him though.

"I said, how did you . . ." Alexei trailed off, staring down at her waist where her jacket had just fallen open as she reached around him. Staring at the sidearm that was on display there.

She looked him levelly in the eyes. "It would probably have been better if you hadn't seen that, Doctor. As far as I'm concerned it doesn't need to play any part at all in how out conversation goes."

"If I co-operate with you, eh?" His tone was cynical. "What do you want?"

She nodded, as if in agreement they should get straight to business. "I want you to x-ray me."

For a few seconds Alexei was too startled to speak. Then anger sparked in his face. "Get an appointment. Like everyone else has to." He didn't quite have the courage to just turn around and walk away, but Svetlana sensed it was close.

"I'm afraid my circumstances don't allow me to do that, doctor," she told him calmly.

"I can't just x-ray someone who has walked in off the street. There are rules. Procedures. I have things I need to do. Patients in need of treatment . . ."

"You were just about to go on your lunch hour. I apologise for the inconvenience, but today you're going to miss lunch."

His jaw shut, biting off whatever he was going to say. He looked at her face intently. "If I don't do it you'll what? Shoot me?"

"I 'd rather it didn't come to threats, or anything like that. It doesn't have to. We don't have to make this into an unpleasant ordeal." Suddenly she smiled at him. "If you have to have a reason, then do it because you like my smile."

Finally he sighed – nodded once. "You do have a nice smile."

* * *

"What exactly are we looking for? I presume you have some kind of reason for this rigmarole? That getting people to x-ray you isn't just some bizarre method of getting sexual kicks?"

Svetlana brushed her hair back from her face, pointing to the small scar on her left temple. "I was told that I was shot in the head, but I have reason to believe I may have been lied to in that matter. As far as I'm aware a bullet passing through my skull would have left telltale evidence that would show up in an x-ray."

Alexei Mikhailov made a small, strangled noise. "You were shot in the head?"

She regarded him calmly. "That's what I'm trying to determine."

"I mean . . .. I mean, you don't know whether you've been shot? Wouldn't that be something that kind of stuck in the memory?"

"I don't remember much of anything doctor."

His face had gone pale – paler than before – and he was sweating; she could see it, his skin greasy in the artificial light. "Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. What's going on here? What the hell are you involved in?"

"You really don't want to know that Doctor. Believe me when I say that."

He looked at her a moment before nodding quickly. "Yeah. Yeah, I get that." He rubbed a hand across his face, swallowing heavily. "Jesus. You have a name?"

She just looked at him.

"Right. Something else I don't want to know. Is there anything I could call you though? Might make it easier."

Svetlana hesitated, then – remembering what Tchéky had called her in the restaurant – nodded. "Irina is as good as anything. For all I can be sure of it might actually be my real name."

He took a deep breath – seemed to have managed to calm himself slightly. "Well then Irina, if you'd like to turn your head to one side and place it against the plate there . . ."

* * *

"So. Is that good enough for you then?"

Svetlana paused briefly – considered – before responding. "Can you do another? My right side this time."

Alexei looked at her wearily. "You were shot – or not shot – there too?"

She caught the cynicism in his voice. "I have another scar there. Not more than six months old at a guess. I don't know how I got it, and no explanation for it has been forthcoming."

"You really have total memory loss?"

"I can't remember any personal information – anything about my life before six months ago – at all. Other things – general knowledge, learned skills and so on – I don't have a problem with."

He grunted. She thought she detected genuine curiosity. "Do you have any other symptoms? Loss of motor control; reduced language faculty; short-term memory problems; difficulty recognising faces; epileptic seizures. Anything like that?"

"You mean aside from the acute paranoia and persecution complex?" She favoured him with a wry smile. "No. Not that I've noticed."

He rubbed the bridge of his nose, then looked back at her face. "That's . . . unusual. That the brain damage caused by a bullet to the head would be so specific, I mean. In itself the memory loss is not so utterly extraordinary, but you would expect a whole range of other problems to go with it if the cause were physical."

"That's what I've been thinking."

"If you want me to x-ray your side you need to take your shirt off."

She did so, hanging it across the back of a chair and standing before him unselfconsciously in her plain black bra. Her gun was also in the way of the area that needed x-raying. She laid it calmly aside on a nearby work surface.

He looked at the gun. To her. Back again.

"Yes. You probably could run away and alert security if you wanted." She smiled once more, looking him directly in the eye. "I'm really not sure that I'd shoot you in the back to stop you."

He shook his head, as if wondering at himself. "I have to admit to a certain curiosity."

* * *

"So doctor. What is your considered opinion? Has a bullet ever passed through my head?"

"My considered opinion . . . Irina?" He reached out and pointed to a spot on the x-ray of her skull. "No. You have never been shot in the head. The bone here is completely intact. There's no sign of any trauma whatsoever. Something like a bullet has certainly never passed through it. No matter how good a job they did at patching you up there would still be obvious signifiers."

Standing beside him, her shirt back on, Svetlana just nodded. Looking at the x-ray she'd already come to exactly that conclusion herself, but it was nice to have expert opinion back that up.

She stared at the x-ray – blinked a couple of times. It shouldn't have come as a surprise. She'd been expecting exactly this – 99% expecting exactly this. But it _was_ still a shock. They'd lied to her. 

How much else was a lie. Was anything they'd told her true in fact? If she hadn't been shot what the hell had been done to her?

"Can we look at the next x-ray?" Her voice sounded strange to her own ears – like it came from several miles away. Alexei looked at her sidelong, but nodded. 

She caught his sharp intake of breath as he put the x-ray of the right side of her abdomen up. It was immediately obvious what the cause was. Directly below the location of her scar was a small completely opaque circle. She pointed to it. "What's that?"

He gave a slightly helpless looking shrug. "Plastic. Possibly metal."

"And it's definitely inside me? Not just a flaw on the x-ray?"

"It's too regular and precise in shape to be a flaw. You'd expect to see it on the other x-ray too if that were the case. No, I'd say it's definitely something inside you."

Svetlana traced the area around the scar with her fingertips, then pushed down, seeing if she could feel anything solid. She thought she could, but it was difficult to be definite.

Alexei was looking at her, expression strange and slightly fearful. He more or less repeated her earlier question. "What _is_ it?"

"A tracking device," she concluded after a pause. Briefly she wondered if it might also be a bug too, but quickly dismissed the idea. Any microphone that small would be unable to pick up any useful sound from that deep inside her – except possibly the working of her bowels. For it to be a bug it would need to have been implanted in her neck.

"A tracking device?" Alexei blanched. "You mean someone knows you're here. Right now?!"

Her heart was suddenly racing, but she shook her head. "Unlikely. It's probably passive at the moment. Too risky sending me on covert missions with an active tracking device inside me." And the sweep she'd been given her going into Chebakov's would almost certainly have given her away. "No it would probably only be activated were I to . . . go missing." 

_Like now? When I've just ditched my tails_. The thought brought her up short.

Alexei was staring at her. "Covert missions? What the hell are you?"

She didn't answer him. Her thoughts were running off down dark and twisted highways.

"Some kind of . . . spy? Secret agent?" The look she gave him made him grimace. "No. I remember. Don't ask. Safer that way. Jesus Christ!" He raked a hand distractedly through his greying hair. 

Svetlana put a hand lightly on his shoulder to steady him and waited for him to calm down a fraction before speaking. "Could you remove it?"

He looked startled. "I'm not a surgeon!"

"But you do have some training in basic surgical procedure, even if it's only what you learned in medical school," she insisted.

Reluctantly he nodded. He looked at the x-ray again. "They put in a relatively safe place. No major blood vessels, and little risk of damaging any internal organs. I could probably take it out under local anaesthetic. If . . . if that is what you want."

_Yes_, she was about to say, but hesitated. 

Having it removed would be an irrevocable step. As soon as she did that she was on the run, cut off from the taskforce with no outside resources she could call upon. She would be alone, with no memories, and no way of finding out anything more about her situation. The only concrete things she possessed were the clothes on he back and the name of what might have been a CIA agent. That was not enough.

Eventually she shook her head. "No. No, on second thoughts leave it in." 

If she did run it would need to be with far more planning and preparation than this. She wasn't even sure yet if she wanted to run.

The clear relief on Alexei's face was so palpable that it almost drew a smile from her. She touched his arm again. "Thank you doctor. I'm sorry I involved you in this, believe me. I'll go now and you won't see me again." She turned away from him – started to walk away.

"You're not going to shoot me then?" The query sounded almost puzzled.

She looked back at him, surprised. In a way she should shoot him, she supposed – cover her tracks. If the taskforce found out about this visit, or he said something inadvertent . . .. Anna would have shot him without a moment's hesitation. 

She smiled. "Now why would I even think about doing something like that?"

* * *

There was a reception committee waiting for her in the lobby of taskforce headquarters. A half-dozen suits materialised around her as soon as she walk through the automatic doors.

Svetlana didn't hesitate for even a fraction of a second, walking directly up to the one she judged to be in charge. "I need to speak to the head of security section right away. There's been an incident."

* * *

Svetlana looked up from the chair as the door opened. It was Tchéky. His expression looked grim.

"What the hell happened? What did you do?" He sat down heavily in the chair across the desk from her.

"I've been over this four times already, Tchéky. In tediously explicit detail."

"Go over it again." His voice was flat

She gave him a slightly odd look, then sighed exasperatedly through clenched teeth. "I went out shopping this morning – the old marketplace. I happened to notice I was been tailed."

"Agents are regularly assigned tails as a matter of routine. There are various freedoms that we all knowingly sacrifice." Tchéky's attitude was definitely odd – distant in a way she couldn't recall from him.

"It wasn't our lot. I know them. They follow me everywhere, and I've got used to it. They're not exactly the most unobtrusive individuals, are they?"

Tchéky grunted. "So you're saying a third party was tailing you too. As well as our security detail."

"Yes." _For the fifth bloody time_. "A man in his mid to late forties. Five foot seven. Medium build. Dark hair with a neatly trimmed moustache showing a hint of grey. He was wearing a brown leather jacket. His partner was a woman of similar age. Five five. Looked to be on the plump side, though that might just have been padding beneath her coat. She wore steel rimmed glasses and had collar length mousy brown hair."

"The security detail claim to have been unaware of these two individuals."

"Why does that not surprise me in the slightest?" She held Tchéky's gaze firmly with hers. He was the first to look away.

"So, you were being tailed. Explain what happened in the convenience store. It has been reported that you were seen passing on what was possibly classified intelligence."

For a moment she just stared at him. "I was seen passing on a flex-neck toothbrush!"

He blinked, slightly startled by the intensity of her reaction. "And why would you want to do that?"

"I was trying to find a way of identifying him to security section. A better way than walking up to the security section detail and starting a bloody conversation in the middle of the street. I failed to anticipate that the idiots would be stupid enough to pull a gun in front of several hundred witnesses. A mistake I'll grant you."

Tchéky rubbed a hand across his eyes and sighed.

"Look. You have the man in custody. You've searched him. You know I didn't pass anything on to him . . . Wait. Why are you looking at me like that?"  She groaned in sudden understanding. "We don't have him in custody, do we? He got away."

He seemed momentarily unable to look her in the eye. "He managed to evade capture, yes."

"Do we employ trained monkeys around here, Tchéky? No? Well perhaps we should do. They could hardly do a worse job than those . . . those incompetents."

"The quality – or otherwise – of our security section personal is not at issue here. Your actions are."

She let out a breath – forced herself calm. "With the benefit of hindsight, yes I made a mistake. I should have cut short my shopping trip, returned to headquarters and reported the situation rather than assume that the agents in the field were capable of dealing sensibly with the matter. So I screwed up." She tugged at the restraining belt securing her to the chair. "But this is a bit much. I am not disloyal. I have never given any indication of being disloyal . . . have I Tchéky?"

Eventually he shook his head. "No." But he pressed on regardless. "You lost the security section detail and disappeared for three hours. Why? Where did you go?"

She'd been through this multiple times too – gritted her teeth in frustration. "I was caught up in a situation which could have led to me being compromised. I left the scene at the earliest opportunity and – using the standard techniques we have all been drilled in – I deliberately ensured that I lost any further tails I might have acquired, before returning to headquarters when I deemed it safe to do so."

He didn't speak; just gave a fractional nod.

"I've already been over my route in detail. I can go over it again if you like."

He shook his head. "No. That won't be necessary." Abruptly he stood up.

"Wait Tchéky," she said as he started to turn away. "What's going to happen?"

He looked back at her, eyes strange. Then he shook his head. "I don't know yet."

After he was gone Svetlana sat back in her chair, tilting her head back and staring up at the ceiling as she waited.

* * *

Svetlana stood, theoretically looking out of the windows of her quarters, though in reality she saw nothing beyond the pale ghost of her reflection in the glass.

A silent, impassive faced man had come into the interview room just over an hour ago, and – unspeaking – released her from the chair harness. Her questions had gone unanswered but she'd been let out and allowed back here.

There was a soft knock on the door behind her. "Come in."

Although she didn't look round she could tell from the rhythm of the footsteps behind her that it was Tchéky. Still gazing out of the window she waited for him to speak.

He cleared his throat uncomfortably. "I just thought I should let you know. You've been cleared of any wrongdoing in this morning's events, and it has been accepted that your actions were reasonable in the circumstances."

She paused a moment before responding. "Do we have any clue who the people following me were?"

There was a hesitation. "Investigations are ongoing."

"So that would be no?"

"There is one thing."

"By the sound of your voice, Tchéky, I'm not going to like this am I?" She finally turned round to look at him. 

His expression was uncomfortable. "Until we manage to ascertain more details about this morning's events I'm afraid you've been confined to headquarters."

"So when you say I've been cleared what you really mean is that I'm a prisoner."

"Svet, the decision was taken for your own protection."

She didn't bother to reply – just looked at him steadily.

"I argued against it. But I was overruled."

She turned away, back to the window. "Can I talk to you Tchéky? In complete confidentiality I mean."

"Of course you can, Svet. You've always been able to talk to me."

She looked over her shoulder at his face. He looked slightly perplexed, she thought. And more than slightly troubled. "I mean talk to _just_ you."

After a pause he nodded, taking a pen out of his jacket pocket and twisting the cap around. Then he leant past her, placing the pen on the windowsill. "Okay. We have a few minutes. Until the beep. What is it?"

"I was never shot, was I Tchéky? That's why there's all this paranoia about this morning. There never was any accident."

For a moment his mouth worked without producing sound. "What on earth makes you think that? That's  . . ."

"Ridiculous? Is it really?"

"Of course it is."

She folded her arms across her chest. "I mentioned that dream, didn't I? About being in America."

He nodded; was about to say something, but she cut him off.

"Well I had another dream. One I didn't mention to you. There was a man in it. A man in both dreams actually. The same man. And he had a name, which I managed to remember when I woke up. So, you know what? I did some checking up."

"Some checking up," he repeated hollowly.

"And guess what I found? I found that the man from my dreams really existed. The name and the face matched up with one on our files."

"Svet . . ." he started.

She ignored him. "The name belonged to someone who, officially, worked for the US Department of State. I think you know what that suggests?"

He blinked. "CIA."

She just looked at him.

He cleared his throat again. "So . . . So you knew a man who works for the CIA. You know Svet, that's hardly inconceivable. You're an intelligence officer, and you've worked in the United States. I'd be more surprised if you didn't know any CIA officers. It's not like the cold war is still going on. It's not like we're enemies any more."

"But we're not exactly allies either, are we?" she pressed.

"Where the hell are you going with this? Because I don't honestly see anything . . .."

"If the dreams are anything to go by I more than just 'knew' this CIA officer. We were . . . intimate."

He stopped, but covered himself quickly. "And?"

"I've read some of the archives. Do these names mean anything to you? Neil Caplan; Mark Roberson; Peter Frampton; Scott Anderson; Robert Mitchell; Leonard Eisendrath; Jonathan Bristow. I could add half a dozen more if you like."

Tchéky nodded resignedly. "I see where you're going with this Svet. But no. No. You're putting two and two together and you're coming up with twenty."

"So you can look me in the eye and tell me with absolute honesty that I was never selected for a mission whereby I was sent to the USA to seduce a CIA agent named Michael Vaughn for the purposes of stealing intelligence."

"Of course you weren't."

"Still, lets – for the sake of argument – say that I was. So there I am, hypothetically now, in the USA, insinuating my way into this Michael Vaughn's life, making him believe that I loved him, while all the time I was really reporting back our conversations; our pillow talk; going through his briefcase; betraying him. Except something went wrong, didn't it? Something that wasn't foreseen. I really did fall in love with him. It wasn't just pretend, and I refused to keep doing my job."

He threw up his hands. "Do you have any idea how mad this all sounds?"

She carried on as if he hadn't spoken. "So what then? Maybe I decide to defect, and you extract me back. Something like that. I'm a traitor to my country of course, but perhaps I'm still useful somehow. Perhaps you want to try out some new psychological conditioning techniques. Wipe my memory say, and set me back to work again as if nothing was amiss."

Tchéky shook his head wonderingly. "Okay, setting aside the obvious ridiculousness of all this for a moment, I'll speak hypothetically too. If you were a traitor, and what you say happened did happen, we would not have wasted all this effort getting you back. We'd have just shrugged our shoulders and given you up as a loss – not worth the hassle. Even allowing that we had got you back somehow, we wouldn't have gone through all this . . . _rigmarole_. You'd simply have been tried for treason, and if you didn't receive the death penalty, you'd get to live out your life in a hard labour camp somewhere in Siberia."

She raised an eyebrow. 

He seemed annoyed, verging on downright angry. "Not speaking hypothetically anymore, I can't envisage any set of circumstances where it would be worthwhile to wipe someone's memory – assuming such a thing is _even_ possible – and reprogram them to be a field agent." He sighed, the anger bleeding abruptly away. "Look Svet, I understand why you might feel that something wasn't right, and why you would think we're hiding things from you. What happened to you doesn't seem natural or possible. It seems crazy even to me. But . . . this is real life. Not John le Carré or Robert bloody Ludlum."

The pen beeped. Both of them stared at the other, breathing slightly heavily. 

Svetlana's gaze settled on the back of his hand. He was still wearing the elastoplast on the webbing between thumb and forefinger, she noted. As he had been for at least three weeks. As, for that matter, had Sergei and a couple of other agents she'd seen around the place.

"How's your hand?"

"What?" Tchéky seemed startled by the sudden segue in the conversation.

"Your hand." She nodded towards it. "You've been wearing that plaster every time I've seen you for god knows how long. It must have been quite a bad injury."

"Oh. Erm, this?" Svetlana could practically see his thoughts ticking over as he struggled to come up with an appropriate lie. She didn't wait to find out what it would be, instead reaching across and ripping the plaster off before Tchéky had time to react.

Instead of an injury there was a tattoo. 'O'. It resembled a symbolic representation of an eye and, looking at it, she knew with a disquieting certainty that she had seen it somewhere before. 

Glaring at her angrily Tchéky snatched up his pen and stalked out.

* * *

"Do we have any idea who might have been tailing her yet?" Tchéky spoke into his cell phone. He was seated in a high-backed leather armchair, the light from a table lamp drawing his face in a mass of hard angles and deep shadows. One hand toyed with the rim of a whisky tumbler, swivelling it back forth as he talked.

"Leads are being pursued," the distorted voice answered after a miniscule pause.

"That sounds like a no to me." 

"The matter is out of your hands, Mr. Romatsev. If it becomes necessary for you to know the results of our enquiries then you will be informed. Otherwise you will not be." There was a hint of a snap to the voice, Tchéky thought. And it still sounded like a no.

"If it is Derevko . . .."

"Derevko has accepted that her daughter is dead. We understand why you have this . . . obsession with Ms. Derevko, and we sympathise. To a degree. But it has reached a point where it is no longer helpful. Where it appears almost to be affecting your focus. The tails were _not_ Derevko's."

"Unless you do know their identity you cannot say that for sure . . ."

"Enough!"

Tchéky flinched.

The voice was urbane again, all trace of anger gone. "In light of recent events we have been minded to reconsider your suggestion that Agent Borushka be sent in for further reconditioning."

"Oh?" Tchéky was so startled by the change in subject that he couldn't manage anything more coherent.

"Yes. Perhaps we were over hasty in dismissing your concerns . . .."

"That's funny," Tchéky hastened. Suddenly he was filled with an acute fear, though he would have struggled to explain its cause – even to himself. "Because I was going to say that, on reflection, _I_ was too hasty. That you were correct. There is no problem."

"Explain."

Tchéky's tongued flicked out, moistening lips that suddenly felt painfully dry. "I don't see what's to explain. I'm merely saying that I was overhasty in my assessment. Of course, as you say, there were always going to be one or two little gaps – teething troubles if you like. But after the Siberia mission . . . .. All my doubts have been erased."

"Your tone of voice does not seem to contain the same confidence as your words suggest."

He swallowed – composed himself. "I'm not sure what you're saying here."

"Then I will make it explicit. Have there been any further incidences to suggest that her conditioning is slipping? Any more dreams, or untoward behaviour? Any suggestion that she is questioning the veracity of what she has been told?"

Tchéky hesitated – glanced down at the back of his hand and the tattoo he still hadn't bothered re-covering. "No," he lied.

"Good." There was a click and the line went dead.

He downed the whisky in a single shot.


	8. Jesus Christ Pose

8. Jesus Christ Pose

A battered old Russian army surplus 4x4 drove slowly and carefully along the heavily rutted dirt track, wheels raising a thick spray of muddy water behind it, its engine working overtime. The thickly forested northern foothills of the Tien Shan Mountains in Kyrgyzstan were heavily overcast; drizzle falling steadily from a leaden coloured sky.

After several miles and many minutes driving the track reached a turnoff, which the 4x4 took. For a moment its wheels span in the thick, glutinous mud, and it looked as though it might get stuck. Then it lurched forwards again, engine growling, exhaust spewing thick black smoke. A few hundred yards further and there was a checkpoint, a chain link fence topped with razor wire cutting through the woodlands as far as the eye could follow on either side. 

A yellow and black barrier was down across the road, and the 4x4 slowed to a halt in front of it. After a pause a uniformed man stepped down from the guardhouse, hands thrust in the pockets of a heavy greatcoat, Kalashnikov assault-rifle slung across his back. He walked unhurriedly round to the driver's side door and tapped on the window, which descended jerkily.

The guard grunted as he got a look at the driver. "Mr. Ibramhov. You were expected several hours ago."

The driver – Ramazan Ibramhov – fixed the guard with a longsuffering look. "Have you seen the condition of the roads? You're lucky we made it up here tonight at all."

The guard shrugged, as if that was neither here nor there to him. He peered across at the person sitting in the front passenger seat. "That her then?"

"That's her," Ramazan confirmed, stifling a weary sigh.

"Another of the boss's loons, eh? You'd have thought he'd collected enough of them by now, wouldn't you?"

Ramazan just looked at him. "And I'm sure the 'boss' would just love to hear you referring to them as his 'loons'."

The guard sneered and spat. "Ask me if I care."

Ramazan snorted. "One might almost think you weren't a true believer."

"I'm a true believer in the contents of my pay packet." He gestured. "Now have her step outside so I can take a look at her."

"Is that really necessary? For god's sake man, it's pissing it down."

The guard just chuckled. "I don't see why I should be the only one getting wet then. And was that blasphemy there, Mr. Ibramhov? Careful. The boss don't like that sort of thing." Another chuckle, followed by a sharper gesture. "Now have her get out. My job see? I have to make sure that no one tries to sneak an assassin in."

"Is that what passes for a sense of humour in these parts?" 

Nevertheless Ramazan lent across and unlocked the passenger side door. When he spoke again his voice was soft and soothing, as if he was addressing a very young child. "Step outside for the nice guard here, please Lena."

For a moment the woman simply looked at him, face half hidden behind a mane of unruly blonde hair, seemingly unable to comprehend what was being asked. Then she slid smoothly out of the seat and stepped into the rain, movements conveying a weirdly fey grace.

"So, what's your name?" The guard asked as he stepped round the vehicle to stand in front of her.

"Lena Sharapova," Ibramhov answered from inside the 4x4.

"She can't answer for herself, eh?"

There was a fractional hesitation from Ibramhov. "Not . . . not on a reliable basis, no."

"Yep, another loon all right," the guard muttered beneath his breath. He took one of his black leather gloves off, then reached out and brushed her hair back from her face as she stood, placidly unmoving, in front him. She seemed completely unconcerned by the falling rain. "Let's get a better look at you."

His breath caught in his throat. Hazel eyes stared off into the middle distance, not focussing on his face – or any other visible object for that matter. Droplets of rain glistened on her cheekbones like jewels.

"Quite a looker, this one. Clean her up a bit, give her some nice clothes and a touch of make-up, and I'd be willing to bet you'd have something pretty stunning. Eh, Mr. Ibramhov?"

"If you say so."

The guard began to pat her down. She was wearing a baggy colourless jumper over a long, shapeless grey dress. "I'm just saying that I wouldn't necessarily kick her out of bed, know what I mean?" A pause. "Pretty well built too, although I usually go for a little more up top."

"Please." Ramazan sounded contemptuous. "She has a mental age of nine."

The guard just laughed. "Well I'm not proposing to fuck her mind, am I?"

"Enough," Ramazan snapped. "You do not talk about her like that. She's not a piece of meat, and she can understand everything you say."

"You don't mind, do you sweetie?" He stroked her chin.

Her eyes focused on his face for the first time and she smiled, the expression strangely eerie. "Mikhail."

The guard jolted – stepped back from her so suddenly that he almost lost his footing in the slippery mud. He glanced back at the 4x4 – at Ibramhov – and forced a deeply unconvincing laugh. "You know, that was pretty good. Almost had me going there, Mr. Ibramhov. But you told her my name, didn't you?"

"You've been listening the whole time. I haven't used your name once."

"I mean before."

Ramazan's lips twisted. "And how the hell would I do that? I didn't know who was going to be on duty."

Mikhail glanced back at her. She was still smiling, expression completely unchanged. Creepily unchanged. He grimaced, then gestured back towards the 4x4. "Okay, get back inside."

She blinked, smile wavering slightly – as if she understood that something was wrong, but wasn't sure what. 

"I said get back in the car!"

"It okay Lena," Ramazan interjected soothingly. "Come here and do as the nice guard says. He's not angry with you. You haven't done anything wrong."

Eventually she nodded, still smiling, and got back inside the car. From there she gave the Mikhail a shy little wave that had him turning away from her quickly

"So, going to let us in then?" Ramazan prompted.

"Bah!" Mikhail stalked back into the guardhouse, shaking his head. About half a minute later the barrier lurched upwards, opening the way forward.

Ramazan Ibramhov glanced at 'Lena' sidelong as he put the 4x4 in gear – broke into a grin. "Mikhail. Nice touch. Almost pissed myself laughing when I saw the look on his face."

Svetlana said nothing – tried to rid herself of the feeling of foreboding as they started driving forward again.

* * *

"Agent Romatsev," Svetlana's greeting was coolly formal – distant. It had been four days since she'd last seen him. Four days of endless nothing. 

Tchéky dropped one of the two files he was holding on the table between them. She looked at it, but made no move to pick it up.

"Go on, take a look," he prompted. After several seconds of silence he took out his pen/bug killer, twisted the cap and laid it next to the file. "Go on. I've violated more laws and trusts than I care to think about getting my hands on that, and I'm violating several more showing it to you now. The least you can do is take a look at it."

After a moment Svetlana nodded and picked the file up, opening it.

"It relates to the Obruskaya mission. You remember that one?"

Again she nodded as she skim-read rapidly. According to what she'd read previously, the Obruskaya mission had involved tracking down a source of mob funds being channelled into Russia from the US and then eliminating it. It hadn't been an overly informative read.

"Well that file was incomplete. Part of the operation was classified beyond you current clearance level. Beyond my current clearance level."

She looked up at him, startled. "Then how did you . . .?"

He grimaced, looking agonised – pressed the heel of one hand to his forehead. "I stole it. Svet, to all intents of purposes I damn well stole it."

She stared at him.

"I stole it for you. In the hope that it might give you some peace of mind. Put to rest these ridiculous theories you're trying to fill the gaps with."

Uncomfortable, Svetlana looked down again and went back to reading.

"To summarise, it identifies the fact that Boris Obruskaya was not a real person. It was a codeword that we used to represent a criminal organisation with global reach known as the Alliance of Twelve."

"The Alliance of Twelve?"

"The name means nothing to you?"

After a moment's pause she shook her head. Of course it meant nothing.

"Not surprising. It no longer exists – in large part down to you, Svet. You identified the source of mob funds as being a cell of this Alliance operating out of Los Angeles. A cell called SD-6."

"_Section Disparu_," she murmured reading the appropriate passage in the file. It . . . there was definite familiarity, stirring somewhere deep in her subconscious. "Yes. Yes, that sounds . . . correct."

"You _remember_?" Suddenly Tchéky sounded slightly shrill.

"No. No, not really. But . . . I don't know. There's definitely something in here. I know I've heard of it before."

At length he nodded. She almost thought he looked relieved about something. _About her not remembering?_ "This Alliance," he went on. "This SD-6. They proved to be several orders of magnitude bigger and better resourced than anything we had remotely anticipated, and certainly beyond your ability to deal with on your own."

"So . . .. You're saying I what? I worked with the CIA?" _Convenient._

"Not just the CIA. With a joint US intelligence taskforce, comprising agents of the CIA, FBI and NSA, specifically tasked with countering Alliance activity. You contacted them with full directorial approval, conveying the intelligence we had gathered and working with them as our liaison officer."

She carried on reading. "And that is how I know this Michael Vaughn?"

"The file makes no specific mention of him. The reports you filed make no specific mention of him."

"And that doesn't strike you as odd?"

"Of course it doesn't strike me as odd!" he snapped. "If you were having an inappropriate relationship with a foreign agent you wouldn't write it up in a damn report!"

"But?" She prompted after several seconds drawn out silence. He'd been going to say more, she knew.

"But someone named Michael Vaughn was assigned to that taskforce at the same time you were co-operating with them," he said heavily.

Svetlana laid the file carefully back down on the table, looking up at him again – tucking a stray stand of hair behind her ear.

He sighed. "Okay Svet, so it broke protocol. Fraternisation between fellow agents is frowned upon; never mind fraternisation with agents of foreign power. And if anyone had found out about it at the time, I'm sure that both of you would have been in some pretty serious trouble. But . . . your husband had been dead for nearly two years and you needed to move on – everyone knew that. So good for you, I say. You slept with a CIA agent. Big deal."

She snorted.

"But that's all you did. There was no elaborate honey trap, and it has nothing to do with your memory loss. As strange as it all seems, there is no conspiracy. I hope . . . I hope you can accept that."

She tilted her head slightly to one side, looking at him critically. _And it took you four days to come up with this lie, did it Tchéky? Four days to fake this file?_

The pen beeped. She slid the file back to Tchéky, though she hadn't really read more than about a third of it. No, she realised. Not four days simply to craft a lie. Four days to craft a lie that had enough truth to it that it wouldn't jar with any other details she might have remembered without telling him. 

_SD-6_. Perhaps something else to work with. Perhaps not. Finally she gave a nod.

Tchéky forced a smile that wasn't remotely real. "Good. Now perhaps we could move onto something more work related?" He laid the second file down on the table.

"Does this mean I've been cleared to resume active duties again?" She pulled the file over.

"We're still investigating leads on your tails if that's what you mean."

"So, nothing then, in other words."

There was a wry twist to his lips. "Not nothing precisely. Just nothing of great usefulness. Anyway, I pointed out to the director that having you sitting around in a state of what amounts to house arrest for the duration is not a very productive state of affairs for any of us."

"Thank you."

He raised an eyebrow.

"I mean it. Really."

He coughed. "Well. The director agreed with me. For once. Makes a change, I have to say. She thought that it might be sensible for you to spend some time away from St. Petersburg right now, and . . . something urgent has come up which we could use you on."

Svetlana opened the cover of the file. "So where am I off to then?"

"Your mission, should you choose to accept it, will take you to north-eastern Kyrgyzstan."

"Kyrgyzstan," she repeated. She sounded dubious.

"I hear it's nice this time of year. Honestly."

"Nice. Right."

"Or do I mean wet? Nice. Wet. I so often get those two confused."

She managed a small smile at that, which vanished quickly as she began reading the file. "So what is there in Kyrgyzstan that's got us excited?"

There was a pause before he answered. "We decoded some of the contents of a CD you and Anna recovered from Barbets. It . . ." He hesitated. "Well, it seems to suggest that the missing pages of the Rambaldi manuscript give details of a particular virus and how it can be modified into an extremely unpleasant form of biological weapon."

She looked up sharply. "A biological weapon? A five hundred year old document containing details of a biological weapon. Tchéky, do I have to even begin to tell you how utterly impossible that is? The concept of a virus simply didn't exist before . . .."

He raised his hand. "Nevertheless, alleged source not withstanding, the contents of the disc have been enough to get some people very worried indeed. The CD shows something not dissimilar to the Ebola and Hanta viruses that can be synthesised relatively simply in a reasonably well equipped lab. It certainly appears easier to produce than either anthrax or small pox, and is several orders of magnitude more deadly than either."

Svetlana grimaced. "But we have the disc? That means it wasn't passed onto a buyer, right?"

Tchéky shook his head. "Evidence suggests that the disc was a back-up copy. We also have details of several meetings that took place, suggesting that any transaction has already been completed."

"And this information leads us to Kyrgyzstan, right?"

"Right. To a cult we've been aware of for a while now." Tchéky reached across and turned several pages ahead in the file to a rather blurred looking photo. "And in particular the information leads us to this man."

She stared at the photograph – blinked once. "You have absolutely got to be kidding me."

* * *

Svetlana dropped to her knees before Jesus and, feigning awe, began to tremble. Cold water, standing in puddles on the stained concrete floor, began to seep through her dress at the knees. She ignored the discomfort though, simply staring up at Jesus's serene face through the strands of wet hair falling untidily across her face. Her eyes looked huge and dark, her fair pale in the artificial light.

Jesus looked down at her and smiled beneficently. "Peace, my child. You need not be afraid." He laid a hand tenderly upon her brow.

"I – I am not afraid." Her voice was small and childlike, drowned by the huge underground cavern and the weirdly echoing sounds of dripping water.

"Then why do you tremble so, dearest one?"

"Because I see . . ." She trailed off abruptly gaze dropping to the floor and the hem of the robe he wore.

"What do you see?"

She wouldn't look up at him again. "People don't like it when I say what I see. It makes them angry."

His smile broadened. "I won't be angry, little one. I promise you that."

"That's what they all say. But they all get angry anyway."

He brushed the scraggly sweep of blonde hair back from her face and lifted her chin with one hand so that he could look her directly in the eye. She tried to flinch away, whimpering, but he held her firm. "You can trust me. I will never get angry with you; I give you my word on that. Now please, tell me what you see."

"I see . . .. I see . . .." She was trembling like a leaf. "I see . . . a giant."

"A giant?" He looked almost surprised, though his serenity remained unruffled.

"A giant of light. Behind you."

His smile returned and he nodded. Then he stood up again, extending a hand to her. "You are scared often, aren't you Lena? Scared by what you see. Come with me and I will take away the fear."

Hesitantly she accepted the hand and let him lead her deeper inside the mountain.

* * *

"His name is Andrei Tcharenko," Tchéky stated matter-of-factly. "Though more often now he is known as the Christ of the Tien Shan, or simply Vissarion – the Teacher. He used to be a rather unremarkable and uninteresting individual working in a low-grade job in the IT sector – a junior 'C' programmer with few friends and a nonexistent love life, who still lived with his mother at the age of thirty-two. Then one morning he woke up and decided he was the second coming, and it was his divinely given duty to lead mankind to a new and brighter future. Rather surprisingly more than ten thousand people – and that number is rising every day – actually believed him."

Svetlana's brow furrowed. "I think I've heard of him."

"Not surprising. Occasionally the media like to point at him and snigger – look at the loony and his weirdo followers. Generally he's regarded as a joke figure."

"But he's more than just a harmless nut, I take it? Hence our interest."

Tchéky nodded. "A harmless nut who's managed to purchase several thousand square miles of Kyrgyzstan's more desolate countryside and founded quite possibly the largest religious community on the planet. A harmless nut, who to all intents of purposes governs his own mini-country as all powerful dictator, answering to no one save the divine visions that he claims guide him."

"So how does a one time computer programmer afford all this then?" Svetlana continued to leaf through the file.

"Benefactors. It's not just the young and the impressionable who have joined his cause. We know of three billionaire businessmen – the details are in one of the appendices – who all claim to have seen the light and placed there entire fortunes at the his disposal. It was at this point we began to take him rather more seriously."

Svetlana looked up. "Even so, nothing so far suggests that he's the kind of person to purchase – let alone use – the type of bio-weapons we're talking about."

"You know about the Aum Shin Rikyo sarin gas attack on the Tokyo subway back in 95? There's precedence for you. And if you start to look carefully at the new age fripperies the Vissarion espouses, you eventually start to see that some of his ideas have much darker undertones. Some are downright apocalyptic."

"Such as?"

"He believes that Saint John's writings in the book of revelations are in truth a metaphor for a real conflict that is about to begin, here and now. He also believes that it is his duty to establish a community of the righteous and the worthy who will live on as a blazing beacon of humanity in the gathering darkness. He says we should not seek to avoid the upcoming conflict, but embrace it, for it heralds a great and awe-inspiring change that is part of God's ineffable plan."

"Hmph," Svetlana snorted. "And this makes him different from assorted other cult leaders of dubious mental stability in what way precisely?"

"In that he has more than ten thousand devoted followers and many billions of dollars of disposable cash to help make his visions come true," Tchéky answered dryly.

"Point," she conceded.

"We were concerned enough about him that we placed an asset in Tcharenko's organisation three years ago, tasked with gaining a place in his inner circle and keeping us informed. Lately some of the things that have been reported back have been . . . well disturbing." He gestured to the file. "Look forward a couple of pages. The photo of the mountain."

She did so.

"Not a lot to see from the outside. Most of the facility is inside the mountain itself, but you'll note the road, and the small cluster of buildings there. It used to be a military bunker – one of twelve similar facilities dating from the sixties and scattered throughout the former USSR. They were designed, in the event of nuclear war, to be able to house an entire government in waiting for an indefinite period of time. There's a vast system of artificial caverns that could house close to a thousand people long term. Tcharenko purchased this place from the Kyrgyzy government a couple of years ago. They were only too glad to be rid of it."

"What does he use it for?"

"Now that's the question," Tchéky conceded. "Tcharenko is being very secretive, even with his most trusted aides, and our man is not entirely within the loop on some things. But he's seen memos and purchase orders for equipment that could be used to set up a lab of the sort necessary to synthesise the virus we found on Barbets' CD. And we know for definite that a pair of senior scientists from a 70s USSR bio-weapons programme have recently 'seen the light' and joined Tcharenko's commune. There's also been mention of some project referred to as the 'Breath of God', though again our man can't say for sure what it is."

She stared at the mountainside photograph. "So – if it's not a completely stupid question – what's my mission?"

"Break in. Destroy the labs. Retrieve or assassinate the scientists, as appropriate. Kill the Vissarion."

She gave a soft grunt. "Simple as that, eh?"

* * *

They walked steadily through tunnels blasted deep in the mountainside, artificial lights humming and flickering intermittently, water dripping incessantly.

Svetlana was being guided by a kindly looking middle-aged gentleman with thinning hair and chunky plastic framed spectacles. He looked a bit like someone's old geography teacher and talked to her soothingly about this and that, though tone of voice seemed more important than subject matter. She feigned a degree of claustrophobia as she walked, shoulders hunched, trembling and occasionally murmuring some nonsense syllable or other as her eyes darted this way and that. Her companion gently stroked the back of her hand in an effort to keep her calm, continuing with his gentle background patter. It was to the conversation taking place behind her that she was truly listening though.  

"She is a . . . truly fascinating one. I have a good feeling that she has exactly what we are looking for." The Vissarion's voice filtered back to along the tunnel, which acted almost like a whispering gallery. "Tell me, honoured Ramazan, where did you find her?"

"A village in rural Georgia, Vissarion." Ramazan's voice was polite; humble even – far different to its normal world-weary cynicism. "I have told you that my mother's family came from there originally, yes?"

"Yes indeed. And how is your mother? I hope you extended my blessings to her?"

"Of course Vissarion. Lena here came from a village a couple of miles along from my mother's childhood home. I'm told there were complications during her birth – the umbilical cord became wrapped around her neck, cutting off the supply of blood for a time. Unfortunately the result was irreparable brain damage."

The Vissarion murmured something Svetlana didn't quite catch. It might have been: "So sad."

Ramazan went on. "She was a strange child. Had a knack for finding things that were lost. Knew in advance when bad weather was coming. That sort of thing. She got a reputation for being a bit weird – touched, they say – and it spread. You don't keep many secrets in those parts. People used to come from miles away to see her when they'd lost something – she was about ten then I think – and things got worse. She kept coming out with little details she couldn't possibly know about these people, and some reacted badly to it. You've seen already the way she looks at you – through you rather than at you, like she's seeing someone – or something – standing just behind your shoulder. Eerie if you don't know what to expect. Eerie even if you do sometimes. Her parents started to keep her isolated; locked her away and didn't let anyone see her. They were frightened, if that's an excuse."

"Well I'm sure I can help her, Ramazan. I'm certain I can bring her peace of mind and spirit, and give her a place where she belongs . . ."

Abruptly the tunnel opened out into a vast cavern and the whispering gallery effect vanished rendering the conversation behind her inaudible. They had emerged what must have been at least fifty feet above the cavern's floor onto a railed catwalk, which clanked and vibrated in time to their footsteps. Electric arc lamps lit up scaffolding and machinery below; packing crates secured under camouflage nets. Dozens of men were working, drills and other machinery clanging and clattering raucously.

Svetlana's gaze was held by one towering structure in particular though, to the point that everything else went almost unnoticed. She stopped in her tracks and stared at it. It felt like a freezing cold metal blade had been driven through the base of her skull – paralysing; agonising.

The structure resembled a gigantic horseshoe, black metal arms reaching well above the catwalk they were on, the tips almost scraping the cavern's ceiling. Suspended between these arms, unattached by any visible mechanism, was an enormous red sphere, dimpled somewhat like a humongous golf ball. The sphere rotated slowly but steadily, producing a low droning hum as it did so.

Images flashed inside her head. She couldn't remember who she was, let alone where or when. 

_Vaughn, it's bigger than I thought. _She let out a low moan and then collapsed.

* * *

"Ramazan Ibramhov. He's our man on the inside and your contact."

Svetlana looked at the photograph – a thin clean-shaven man in his forties with a deeply tanned hatchet face and close cropped brown hair. "How is he going to get me in?"

Tchéky's lips switched to form a slight smile. "That's the interesting bit."

"Well?" she prompted.

"It seems that the Vissarion has been conducting a search to find his . . . for want of a better word, apostles. Christ had his disciples, and the Vissarion feels that so should he."

Svetlana stared at him. "You're not suggesting . . .."

"He's been conducting a search, not just within Kyrgyzstan and Russia, but throughout much of Europe and Asia as well, to locate people who show evidence of psychic or paranormal abilities. Apparently he believes that such people – like himself – have been touched by god, only unlike him they haven't accepted this yet."

"Psychics and people with paranormal abilities?" The look she shot him was sceptical.

He spread his hands. "Hey, I'm just a messenger – reporting the facts. It doesn't mean I'm a believer. Anyway, the Vissarion has been gathering these alleged psychics and bringing them to his Kyrgyzstan bunker facility to run tests and establish their credentials."

"He's been what? Kidnapping them?"

"No, no. He hasn't had to resort to anything so extreme. It's amazing what a substantial cash incentive from a beardy lunatic will persuade people to do entirely of their own free will."

"So I'm going to be a psychic." She snorted. "Not to rain on your parade or anything Tchéky, but I may have spotted one teeny little flaw with all this. Namely my complete lack of any kind of psychic talent."

Tchéky laughed. "Svet, Svet. You've been trained to read people – their body language and expressions – and Ramazan will prep you with all the inside information you could possibly need. I absolutely guarantee you will be the most psychic person the Vissarion has ever encountered. You'll blow him away."

"If you say so. And once I'm in?"

"Ramazan will give you the exact details. Basically he'll disable the security on the area where the labs have been constructed; you'll break in and blow them up. The necessary explosives and other op-tech are already inside the bunker – too risky to try and bring them in with you."

After a moment she nodded. "When do I fly out?"

* * *

"Slightly over the top there I thought," Ramazan murmured, his voice scarcely more than a subliminal vibration against the skin of her neck. "Although the Vissarion's sold completely. You're his new favourite."

Svetlana didn't say anything. Her heart was still tripping over twenty or thirty beats a minutes faster than its normal resting rate, and every time she so much as blinked the images playing inside her head reared up back to the fore. She wondered briefly what Ramazan's response would be if he knew what had happened to her hadn't been in any way an act.

He stood up, leaving her lying on the bed. He glanced back at the door and the two guards who flanked it. "She's okay. She has these turns occasionally. It's nothing unusual. Too much excitement for one day, and I'm not sure she likes being so far underground. Interferes with something up here." He tapped the side of his head.

The guards exchanged a look.

"You can both go now. Everything's fine."

After a slight pause they nodded and left them. The door clicked shut and Ramazan turned back to Svetlana on the bed. 

"You'll be okay Lena." His voice was soothing. He glanced quickly towards the small camera in the corner of the room to indicate to her they were still being watched and listened to – that they still needed to maintain their cover. Catching and holding her gaze, he started to blink out rapid Morse code. "Everything's fine." The blinking continued.

She didn't say anything, staring at him wild eyed. He smiled. "I'm going to have to leave you alone for a bit now. There's no need to be afraid." He knelt down beside the bed and touched her shoulder gently as she shook. "Any time you want anything you can press this button here and speak to the nice man on the other end. It's a bit like a phone. You're good at using the phone, aren't you Lena?"

After a moment she nodded – returned the smile tremulously.

The blinking stopped. "I'll see you again soon." He turned and left. 

As the door clicked shut behind him Svetlana rolled over onto her side and stared at the wall. Five hours to wait. She should try to get some sleep; try to relax at least. But all she could see was that huge red sphere, turning over and over.

* * *

The intercom beeped three times – the signal that the camera was now being looped and it was time to move.

Svetlana sprang into action instantly, rolling off the bed and reaching underneath it. A quick search turned up a plastic bag stuck to the bed's underside. Quickly she stripped off the dress she wore and pulled on the tight fitting black cold suit the bag contained – designed to render its wearer all but invisible to the facility's infrared camera system. Tearing the scraggly blonde wig off, she replaced it with a balaclava made from similar material, and a pair of night vision goggles.

Then she started arrange wig and pillow in such a manner that anyone looking casually into the room would think she was still in bed, sleeping.

Once that was done she crossed to the door, pausing to listen. After a few seconds she became confident that no one was there and turned the handle. The door opened easily.

_Turn left, second door on the right. Crate 47B._ Those had been Ramazan's blinked instructions

Unconsciously holding her breath, half expecting an alarm to go off, she tried the indicated door. As expected it was unlocked and she slipped inside.

Shelves rose on either side of her, filled with packing crates. She looked at the nearest crate to her left – 36B – and followed the shelf along. 

47B. Moving quickly she pulled it out onto the middle of the floor and threw it open. 

On top was a tranq gun and two clips. She slid one of the clips home and holstered it. If things went well it should prove unnecessary. Next to it was an SR-1 pistol fitted with a suppressor, plus a spare clip. That would hopefully be even more unnecessary. The C4 charges were a requisite part of the plan.

The door opened behind her. "You! Don't move!"

She was already moving though, diving behind the crate and pulling the lid up to act as cover. The SR-1 was already to hand and she aimed and fired at the guard silhouetted in the doorway in a single smooth motion.

The gun produced a brittle sounding click. The SR-1 had an automatic safety, so that wasn't the problem. A second pull of the trigger produced no more than another click.

"I said freeze!" The guard stepped forward into the room, seeming to have difficulty seeing her. Three more piled in behind him. 

Svetlana darted rapidly forward, rolling through the gap in the shelves the crate had left. She expected gunfire to follow her, though none came. 

She drew the tranq gun in place of the SR-1and tried that. Again the only result was a soft click and nothing else. She swore beneath her breath.

"Where is she?" One of the guards muttered

As the guards advanced inside she tried throwing her weight against the shelves in an effort to topple them. They were bolted securely at both floor and ceiling though, and her effort had no effect.

"There! Behind the shelves!"

"Somebody turn the lights on!"

Svetlana sprinted down the narrow gap between wall and shelves, back towards the door. Someone fired something through the shelves that missed, several feet behind her head. It wasn't a bullet, and she didn't waste time working out exactly what it was.

She made it back to the door, snatching up a fire extinguisher from a wall bracket. One of the guards spotted the movement out of the corner of his eye and whirled on her. A skull-cracking blow with fire extinguisher's base rendered him unconscious before he hit the floor.

The lights came on.

Sweeping the nozzle sideways, she sprayed CO2 into the faces of the two guards directly in front of her before they could so much as blink. As they reeled back from her she drove the fire extinguisher into the stomach of the nearest.

He doubled over, the breath blasted from his body. Svetlana immediately rolled across his back, kicking the man standing behind him hard in the face as his eyes widened in surprise. He sprawled over backwards with the force of the impact.

The second guard she'd sprayed was clawing frantically at his eyes and coughing, struggling to bring the weapon he carried – a tazer, she now saw – to bear on her. A fraction of a second before he fired she kicked out at his wrist, knocking the tazer sideways. Twin darts shot out, embedding themselves in his still doubled-over companion's leg. 

There was a sharp crack of electricity accompanied by the stench of fried ozone, and the man who'd been hit collapsed with a strangled yelp. Svetlana slammed the last remaining guard in the face with the extinguisher and ran.

As she emerged into the corridor she saw that half a dozen more men were approaching rapidly from one direction – again armed with tazers. She chose the other direction, sprinting hard. Part of her wondered how everything could have gone to hell so quickly. 

Ramazan, she concluded. He'd been compromised.

She rounded a corner, mind racing, searching for a way out. Four more guards were coming directly towards her, just cresting a flight of stairs at the corridor's end. For a moment she tried to reverse direction, but then realised there was no way back behind her either. She sprinted onwards, directly towards them.

The two in front paused as they caught sight of her and stared. The one on the left was just about collected enough to lift his tazer and aim it at her. He started to yell an order, but she was already airborne, leaping at them.

She caught the two men full on, slamming into them and knocking them backwards into the faces of their two colleagues coming up behind them. Five bodies went tumbling together in a massed tangle of limbs, bouncing down the twelve steps leading onto the landing below.

Svetlana was the first up, her fall broken by the bodies beneath her. 

Pain shot through her left hip and her leg almost buckled beneath her. She hissed through her teeth, just about managing to stay upright. Snatching up one of the tazers from a limp grasp, she lurched down the next flight of stairs as fast as her battered body could manage. She could hear her pursuers reach the top of the stairs behind her, but didn't look back.

The corridor she emerged onto looked almost identical to the one above. Taking a deep breath she launched herself into a run again. She was going the wrong way she knew, deeper into the facility, away from the labs she was supposed to destroy. Away from the way out. For the moment though, there didn't seem to be much choice.

Someone stepped out of a door about forty yards in front off her. 

Her eyes widened as she saw who it was. "Ramazan!"

"Hey, Svet." Given the circumstances his response was almost preternaturally laid back.

"They were waiting for me! We've been compromised!"

"I know," he said calmly.

"Run . . ." she started to yell at him, but choked off. She saw that he was holding a gun – and that it was pointed directly at her. He was still about ten paces away from her, and he was actually smiling.

 There was something very, very wrong with this picture. Vainly she tried to dive for the nearest door, but she didn't even get half way. 

He shot her.


	9. Typhoid Mary

9. Typhoid Mary.

"I am concerned." 

"Oh?" Director Karpuchin looked up at Tchéky. "What about, Agent Romatsev?"

He took a deep breath. "Svetlana is now two days late reporting in, and we've been unable to raise Agent Ibramhov. Examination of his activities shows several serious breaches of normal protocol."

The Director didn't responded straight away, looking over a sheet of paper on the desk in front of her. "Yes, Agent Romatsev. I am fully aware of these facts."

Tchéky hesitated, somewhat taken aback by the tone of her response. "Might I ask what we intend doing about it?"

She fixed him with a beady eye, leaving a long silence for him to fill. When he failed to do so, she simply said: "For the moment? Nothing."

"Nothing?" He sounded aghast. "You know as well as I do that she's likely been compromised, and that Agent Ibramhov may have turned traitor. We should be drawing up plans to extract her and . . ."

"What is your interest in this, if I might ask, Agent Romatsev?"

He was flustered. His mouth worked a second or so before it managed to produce coherent speech. "I have been assigned to act as her handler. I was under the impression that she was of paramount importance to us. Absolutely our top priority – and I have this from the _highest_ authority. I would have thought, therefore, that we would be more concerned when it seems she may have been betrayed and is in danger."

Director Karpuchin simply regarded him calmly. "Worried that your ass is on the line if we lose her, Agent Romatsev?"

"No!" It was slightly disconcerting to find that was absolutely the case. It wasn't himself he was worried about. "I'm . . . concerned about the fate of a valuable asset."

She raised an eyebrow. "Interesting." Then she smiled. It was a chilly expression. "But you need not concern yourself. Everything is in hand. I can assure you that Agent Ibramhov has not turned, and is indeed carrying out his instructions to the letter."

He gaped at her. "I'm sorry, but I beg to differ . . ."

"You were only given the details of the plan that were necessary for you to carry out your function, Agent Romatsev. It was thought that you had developed a level of emotional attachment to Agent . . . Borushka that might have made carrying out our orders in this matter difficult for you. It seems we were correct, hmm? Do not concern yourself. Everything that has happened in Kyrgyzstan has – up to this point – gone exactly according to plan."

"To plan?" Tchéky sounded incredulous. Suddenly he felt a fear he would have been hard pressed to explain. "How the hell can this be to plan?"

She gave another chilly little smile. "It may not be your plan, Agent Romatsev. But it is _the_ plan."

* * *

Dazzlingly bright white light. 

Svetlana flinched, twisting her head to one side and closing her eyes against the harsh glare. Her head was pounding – a viciously incessant hammering that wouldn't stop. She was lying on something hard and uncomfortable, and as she became more acquainted with the pain in her head a plethora of other aches made themselves known.

She remembered how she'd acquired the bruise to her left hip, but the sharp pain from her ribcage was something she couldn't recall getting. She hissed involuntarily as she inadvertently stretched the area.

She tried to lift a hand to her face, but found she couldn't. Her arms were tightly pinned to her side. Alarmed she shifted – or tried to – but found that her legs were constrained too. There was also a thick leather harness around her waist, holding her tightly in place.

Something moved over her – a shadow blocking out a portion of the bright light. Her eyes opened again, squinting.

The man standing over her was dressed in a surgeon's scrubs. The lower portion of his face was covered by a sterile mask and all she could really see of him were his eyes – dingy green, deep set, surrounded by a web of fine lines. He wasn't looking at her directly, and in his hand he held a stainless steel syringe-gun filled with a dark red liquid that looked like blood.

He took hold of her upper arm and swabbed it with something she couldn't see. Svetlana tried to struggle, but the restraints made that almost impossible. "Wait," she started to say, but her throat was parched and her voice came out as little more than a weak croaking noise.

"She's conscious," the doctor commented to somebody outside her field of vision. Then, addressing her: "It will be less painful if you try to relax."

She didn't comply, but he didn't seem much bothered by that, pressing the syringe gun against the patch of skin he'd just swabbed and pulling the trigger. Svetlana flinched at the brief stinging sensation.

"What did you do to me?" Svetlana asked, her voice slightly more human sounding this time.

The doctor ignored her, turning away and placing the now empty syringe on a tray. Then he stripped off the latex gloves he was wearing and stepped out of range of her vision. A couple of seconds later she heard the sound of a tap running.

"What did you just inject me with?" Svetlana insisted, though she received no greater response than before. She could feel her heart pounding, though whether that was down to the injection or simply her own state of borderline panic it was difficult to tell.

The tap stopped. She heard the doctor speak again. "Now we just wait and see if you were right. We should have her moved into the isolation ward in the meantime."

* * *

"It was my decision to mislead you, yes." The distorted voice crackled out of Tchéky's cell phone.

"Why?" Tchéky managed after a moment's pause.

"To ensure that you wouldn't be tempted to let something slip to her, or that you wouldn't accidentally give something away with your body language."

"That was not what I meant," he said tightly. "I mean why turn her over into the Vissarion's hands after all this. I think I deserve to know."

There was a distorted chuckle. "Deserve to know? Now that is an interesting concept. Let me see, its eight years since you came to work for us, isn't it Tchéky? I find it interesting that you have managed to maintain a level of naivety such that you still believe in the concept of 'deserve to know.'"

Tchéky managed to bite back on the anger he felt – didn't say anything.

"Very well, I'll humour you," the voice continued, sounding amused. "Did you ever pause to wonder about Rambaldi designing a killer virus? Something with the sole purpose of bringing misery and death to the world?"

"After what I've seen over the years I've ceased to wonder at anything about Rambaldi." Tchéky's voice was flat. "There doesn't seem much point."

"Oh, I don't mean the technical plausibility of it Tchéky. I mean morally and philosophically. Rambaldi wasn't a man who was interested in death. Quite the reverse in fact. He revelled in life and always sought means to improve and extend it through his work. To bring us closer to god through science."

Tchéky made a noncommittal noise. "So you're saying what? The bio-weapon you sent her after is nothing of the sort?"

"Some might mistake it as such. Those who haven't read the contents of the page Svetlana helped us uncover for instance. It will kill most people granted, and kill them quite horribly, so it is a natural enough mistake I suppose. But that is to overlook several key facts – most notably that, as a virus, it simply isn't very contagious or hardy. Short of having it injected into your bloodstream – or ingesting large quantities of it – it is quite difficult to become infected."

"What is it for then?" Tchéky asked, unable to keep the edge of impatience out of his voice.

"Rambaldi writes that it is meant to transform and unlock – to elevate to a higher level. Not just anybody, mind. According to him it will only work as intended on somebody of a particular genetic disposition." There was a pause. "Are you getting there yet, Tchéky, or do you need me to spell it all out?"

"It will only work as intended on someone with the same genetic characteristics as the person whose blood revealed the page." Tchéky sounded numb. His grip on the phone slackened to the point where it almost slipped from his grasp.

"Indeed, indeed. Very good," the voice was saying, though he was only half listening. "I knew there was a reason I employed you, though lately I've been minded to forget."

"You sent her to become infected," Tchéky accused.

* * *

_She was a giant. _

_She gazed down at the giant red sphere – the battery, she knew – and reached out. Her hand was enormous; easily as big as the sphere itself, which floated hypnotically above the black horseshoe device. As she watched her hand moved, seemingly of its own volition, unhooking the device from its moorings._

_The ball exploded. She drew back, startled, as water showered everywhere._

* * *

She was in hell. Purgatory. Some such.

She could hear moaning. Ghastly sounds of pain and suffering. Some of those sounds might have come from her.

Her skinned burned, fever hot. Hot as the sun. Her throat was parched, and she craved water. _Water_. She would have almost been tempted to sell her soul for a glass of water.

She tried to move, but she couldn't. She was too weak to lift her hands. They remained pinned at her sides in any case. The pain was awful. Intolerable, vicious red needles of it, stabbing through her legs and hands. Even the texture of her clothing against her body was an agony, abrading sensitised skin like sandpaper.

She drifted, coherent thought lost amid ebbing tides of delirium that threatened to sweep her away. Even the most fundamental of details became difficult to grasp.

_Who was she?_ For a startling, terrifying moment she had no idea. Then a name surfaced. Svetlana? No, that wasn't right. People had been calling her Svetlana lately, but she was really called something different . . .

Consciousness faded before she could follow the thought through.

* * *

_The red sphere was there again, looming in front of her, spinning slowly between the arms of the giant black horseshoe. Only this time she wasn't a giant anymore. This time she was tiny._

Alice through the looking glass. Big, then small_. The thought made her giggle for a moment, except . . . except it wasn't really funny. In fact it was scary._

_"Vaughn, it's bigger than I thought," she heard herself saying in English. Her earpiece crackled. She couldn't make out the voice on the other end. "If I turn this thing off I'm going to have to swim out."_

* * *

"She's just like all the others. The same symptoms exactly. Face it, you were wrong. She's going to die a miserable, lingering death just the same as everyone else we've infected."

Not-Svetlana blinked, staring up at the speaker. It was the doctor from before – the one who'd injected her. He was no longer wearing a mask and was separated from her by clear plastic. His lips looked prissy, surrounded by lines and pressed tightly together like sphincter.

"She's conscious," another person said. She recognised that voice. Ramazan. The one who'd betrayed her. It was too much effort to muster any anger.

"So are half the others. It means nothing. Her insides are still turning slowly into mush."

She tried to speak, but she struggled to make her voice work. In the end it all seemed like too much effort and she gave up. The pain wasn't quite as bad before – dull, distant throbbing, but she had no energy whatsoever.

"The tests show nothing different at all?" This was a third voice – one she couldn't place.

"Look for yourself," the doctor answered. "Antibodies at roughly a thousand percent normal levels. Her immune system is trying to fight back, but it's being overwhelmed. She's being eaten alive from the inside out. Exactly the same as everyone else here."

"It's acting quicker with her, isn't it?" Ramazan said. "Normally it takes, what, several days for the precursor symptoms to manifest. With some of them I've seen it lies dormant for weeks. Look at her though – this is fifty two hours."

"So we have expended all this effort just to find someone who dies more quickly." The doctor sounded dismissive. "I hardly think this is what Rambaldi had in mind. I feel quite confident in saying we were mistaken. She isn't the one we were looking for."

Close by somebody screamed. It was a horrible, wrenching sound that trailed away into wet gurgling coughing.

"But, nevertheless, it _is_ different, even if only slightly." The third voice again.

She saw the doctor nod grudgingly. From close by came anguished, sobbing moans.

"Why isn't she screaming? Like all the rest?"

As if on cue another hopeless cry of agony sundered the air.

"We're giving her the full morphine dosage. The others are on minimal rations – our supplies are hardly limitless. We thought she was important though, so we're trying to keep her relatively comfortable."

"And do the texts say anything about morphine?" the third voice asked sharply.

"No, of course not."

"Then take her off it. If it wasn't in Rambaldi's writing it might be inadvertently interfering with some process or other. Interfering with her ability to fight the virus off."

_No. No don't do that_, she mouthed, but no one was looking at her anymore.

"I hardly think that's going to make any difference . . ." the doctor started.

"Don't think. Do as you're told. Even if you're right it's not going to make things worse."

She heard two sets of footsteps walking away. The doctor sighed, bending down and fiddling with something out of her range of vision. Then he walked away from her too. 

After a time her surroundings faded again.

* * *

_She ran. Her heart pounded, adrenaline flooding her veins as her legs pumped. Behind her she could here a roaring, rushing noise getting louder by the second. By the fraction of a second. She was running for her life._

_Ahead of her was stark white hallway. She gritted her teeth and strained to extract the last bit of extra pace from her limbs, but she was already going flat out. She rounded a corner. There was someone ahead of her, stopping and staring wide-eyed at her. At what was following behind her._

_Vaughn. She now remembered him well enough that she recognised him immediately, though he looked different to the other times she'd seen him in her dreams – hair spiked; long leather trench coat flapping up behind him._

_She motioned for him to run, but he just stood gaping. As she got near him she grabbed his chest, yanking him round and yelling at him. The roaring was so loud that she didn't dare stop, and she careened past him. She could here his footsteps pounding behind her though, so kept on sprinting as hard as she could._

_Ahead of them was a door. It was sliding remorselessly shut._

_She made it through, but it was already two-thirds closed. Desperately she tried to hang on – to keep it open – but the machinery driving it was too powerful for her to hold_

_It slid to inches in front of Vaughn. She stared at his face through the glass insert as the wall of water slammed into him, filling up the hallway behind the door from floor to ceiling._

_Frantically she grabbed hold of a fire-extinguisher mounted on the wall, using the base of it to slam into the glass time and time again. It was useless though. She might as well have been hitting reinforced steel_

_Then he was gone, the window empty._

* * *

"Vaughn," she cried, though her voice was so distorted that anyone listening would have had a hard time telling that.

She surfaced briefly from the delirium, groaning. The pain was monstrous again – all pervasive. It hammered through her skull in red-hot iron spikes. She moaned. Her skin glistened with sweat, running in rivulets. Bloodshot eyeballs twitched and rolled, pupils dilated, focusing on nothing. Little tremors and twitches passed through her body continuously

_Burning. Burning._ She thought she could see the flames in the corner of her vision – hear them roaring and crackling.

She tried to pull away, but the restraints held her fast, unable to move. After several seconds she subsided back, head twisting from side to side.

_Who am I?_

* * *

_Her hand closed around the handgun hidden beneath her mattress._

_"I just remembered. Francie doesn't like coffee ice cream."_

_She looked up, heart in mouth. Francie – fake, cuckoo Francie; the interloper who had stepped into her best friend's life and stolen it – stood framed in the bedroom doorway, a gun pointed at her._

_No. She doesn't," she answered flatly. Her voice seemed to come from a long way away, her muscles coiling like springs in readiness for what was to come._

_"Drop the gun. Drop it!"_

_She was already moving though, diving forward even as Francie started shooting . . ._

* * *

Her breath wheezed and gurgled like a broken bellows. Someone had filled her lungs with molten lead and she slowly was drowning in it. That was what it felt like anyway.

She thought she saw something moving near her and strained to see. Her vision distorted and swam, like oil spilled in a puddle of water, then it went completely black.

* * *

_"You think you can steal from us, you little bitch?!"_

_She crouched behind the red sofa, using it for cover. Her breath was coming quickly, her ears straining to pinpoint the position of her assailant as he moved towards her. Her gaze travelled along the windows across the other side of the plane's fuselage, alighting on the door opposite her._

_She wrapped one hand in a length of seatbelt and lifted her pistol, aiming carefully._

_"No! No, no, no, no, No!" Vaughn's voice, frantic over her earpiece._

_Ignoring it she fired. Once. Twice._

_The window in the door cracked, then shattered. There was a horrendous creaking, buckling sound. Then the door blew out entirely and everything was a howling maelstrom of wind and fury._

* * *

Hot needles jabbed along the backs of her limbs, then for good measure decided to play up and down the length of her spine a few times. She tried to move – to escape the torment. Either she was too weak or something was holding her down though.

All she could manage was to twist feebly from side to side.

Even that effort proved too much. Everything faded, first to red then black.

* * *

_Her keys fell from her hand, tumbling to the floor. She dropped the bags she was carrying, heedless of where they fell. _

_The bathroom door was slightly ajar and she moved towards it as if drawn by invisible strings. Part of her – a terrified little-girl part, curled up in a ball in a corner of her mind – wanted to turn and flee; knew that opening the door the rest of the way would be like opening Pandora's Box. She went on regardless – peered inside._

_Danny was in the bathtub. There was blood everywhere. It was splattered over the formerly pristine white porcelain; running in garish red streaks._

_She dimly heard herself gasp – was running across to the bathtub without consciously making any decision. Her legs buckled and her hand came up to her mouth as she leant over him, seeing the bullet holes in his head and chest._

_Everything spilled out. She screamed – a primal howl of disbelieving grief._

* * *

Light. 

It stung her eyes, but it was oddly calming. She could hear her breath rasping, but the painful raw emotions left over from her vision bled slowly away.

There was a face above hers, looking down, bearded and serene. It was surrounded by a glowing halo. Eyes seemed to shine, filled with compassion as they gazed down at her. She saw his lips move, though no sound managed to reach her.

_Calm, my child_, she thought they said through lip reading. _You will be well again soon_.

She appreciated the sentiment but decided to herself that he was a liar. 

* * *

_Pain. _

_Everything seemed to hurt and her eyes wouldn't focus properly. There seemed to be at least three separate Francie's walking towards her, and there was a rushing noise in her ears that drowned everything else out transforming the scene into a strange silent movie._

_She tried to move – knew she had to move – but she couldn't make her body respond. Cuckoo-Francie was leaning over her now. One hand snaked towards the gun that had fallen beside her amid the fragments of broken glass._

Go on, move you bitch. Move or you're going to die!

_Operating more on instinct than conscious will she managed to grab hold of one of the glass shards, ignoring the fact that it bit into her hand as she picked it up. One more hurt amid all the rest scarcely made a difference. Then she lashed out, laying Francie's cheek open._

_Francie drew back, stung, one hand coming up to touch her face._

_In the space she'd bought herself she grabbed the gun. She tried to aim it, though her vision was blurring and the floor seemed to tilt and slide beneath her. _

_She pulled the trigger once – blew a chunk from Francie's left biceps. Again. A dark red flower blossomed on the left side of Francie's chest near her shoulder. Third time the charm. The right side of the chest this time, neatly pairing off the second shot._

_Cuckoo-Francie toppled backwards._

_The roaring in her ears became louder, drowning out her own ragged breathing. She was vaguely aware of the gun sliding between her fingers as she subsided backwards, then consciousness slowly bled away._

* * *

She screamed.

Her throat was so raw and dry that it felt like the effort made it crack open, the pain excruciating. The fever burned more fiercely than ever, her skin drenched in sweat that was somehow both hot and icy at the same time. Thoughts slid and slipped away like quicksilver every time she tried to grasp them.

The noise she made seemed to waken those occupying the beds around her. Someone else screamed in answer to her and very soon there was a cacophony of moans and wails and agonised gasps.

Serenaded by a choir of the damned, she drifted back into oblivion.

* * *

_"I've waited almost thirty years for this."_

_She stared at the woman's silhouette framed in the light from the doorway. Her heart was thudding. Suddenly her injuries – the pain in her head; the bruising – were distant, trivial things. It had become almost impossible to think straight through the conflicting tides of emotion. "Mom?"_

_The woman stepped forward slowly, into the light – revealing herself to her gaze._

_"You must have known this day would come." Her mother smiled fractionally, her voice soft. "I could have prevented all this of course. You were so small when you were born. It would have been so easy." _

_Her gaze travelled slowly down and she saw that the woman – her mother – held a pistol down by her side._

_"Tell me . . . Sydney . . ." The voice was still soft, but now it was insistent too. "Who sent you here? You must tell me."_

* * *

_Sydney__._

Blobs of colour swirled and danced, floating just above her.

Pretty colours. She smiled, fascinated by them. Oh so pretty . . .

* * *

_"Syd?"_

_As she turned back from the drugs cabinet, she stopped briefly and stared down at Vaughn. Stripped to the waist and lit by sickly yellow light as he lay on the gurney he looked so vulnerable – ill. Some of the initial joy she'd felt on first seeing him was replaced by a jittery kind of fear. _

_"I'm so sorry. I'm going to shoot you with adrenaline. We've got to run." _

_She plunged the syringe into the small bottle of clear liquid, filling it up. Her gaze darted quickly – nervously – to the stairs leading up from the basement, then back to Vaughn. She stepped closer to him, syringe in hand, knowing she had to hurry._

_"Uh, don't do that . . ." he started to protest._

_Too late. She pounded the needle into his chest._

_* * *_

_Syd_.

Twitch. Flicker. Then gone again, reclaimed almost instantly by the darkness.

_* * *_

_The light snapped back on. Consciousness snapped back with it. _

_Flinching against the brightness she tried to move but the restraints securing her to the chair held her just as securely as before._

_She wasn't alone. Awake or dream. It was all so confusing._

_Sloane. _

_Rage surged and she had to fight the urge to thrash against the restraints; to try to break free and get her hands on him and  . . .. _

_No he would not have that pleasure. Instead she stared directly forwards into space, not even glancing at him._

_"Sydney, tell him what he wants to hear . . . or this will not end well." She was aware of him moving closer, crouching down beside the chair. She could smell his aftershave; feel the warmth of his breath against her cheek. She gritted her teeth and forced herself to keep staring straight ahead._

_"You know, in many ways, I will always consider you my proudest achievement, Sydney. Unfortunately, I can't do anything about this"_

_* * *_

_Sydney. _

She coughed weakly, barely stirring back to consciousness.

_Who was called Sydney? No Sydney here. That's a silly name. Silly, silly name._ She giggled, though the sound that emerged from her lips was scarcely recognisable as such.

_* * *_

_Her mother stood only inches away, separated from her by nothing more than a layer of glass. _

_Conflicted emotions struggled within her, but she kept them buried behind the facade of ice-cold determination and tightly controlled anger she had constructed around herself as armour._

_"Look at me!" Her voice held a snap, and she paused until her mother did indeed meet her gaze. _

_"We will interact only when necessary. You will address me as 'Agent Bristow' and only answer the questions I ask. There will be no personal anecdotes, no comments about my job performance, no condolences or congratulations. Do you understand?"_

_No emotion showed on her mother's face. She stood there, calm and watchful, as if she was the once outside the cage – in control._

_"Do you understand?" she repeated, cold and firm. No ground would be ceded this time. Not an inch._

_Her mother's expression altered fractionally; something was yielded. An acknowledgement of equals. "Yes . . . Agent Bristow."_

* * *

Floating and serene.

The fierce burning, hellish heat was finally gone and now it felt almost as she were drifting in a pool, calm and completely content. Lethargy weighed on her where before there had been fever and delirium. Time ceased to have meaning or direction.

_Agent Bristow. Agent Sydney Bristow. That is who I am._

Gradually she faded once more. After a short while her eyelids started to flicker rapidly.

* * *

_"Sydney, understand something – "_

* * *

_"Good luck, Sydney."_

* * *

_"No, no, no! This is crazy! Sydney! Do you hear yourself?!"_

* * *

_"Sydney Bristow. I'm an intelligence officer for the United States government."_

* * *

_"Syd? You okay?"_

* * *

_Syd_. _Sydney_. _Sydney Bristow_.

Her name was Sydney Bristow. 

Not Svetlana Borushka. It wasn't a sudden bolt of light in which all her memories came rushing back, but she knew with absolute certainty she was not Svetlana Borushka. An overwhelming jumble of images span out of control inside her head, making it impossible to focus on any one thing. 

A small part of her still capable of coherent thought wondered briefly if she hadn't gone completely mad. Questioned whether it wasn't just one of her aliases rising out of the delirium, to try and take over and fill the void.

There was a soft, distinctive _phfft _sound from somewhere. 

It cut through the spiralling insanity and snapped her back to consciousness. She listened hard. It seemed quieter than usual. No laboured breathing; no bedlam of moans or cries. Suddenly she felt very much alone.

She tried to twist her head to one side to see, but it was useless. The way her restraints held her prone left her with only the most limited field of vision.

There was a squeak of a rubber-soled shoe on the vinyl floor very close by. Abruptly she lay still, closing her eyes and trying to regulate her breathing and heart rate so as to appear to be unconscious still.

"That's the last of the poor bastards."

The voice spoke in Russian. It took a second or so for her to translate it into English and understand what was being said.

Something inside her lurched. She was thinking in English. Her heart thudded. _Sydney__._ _Definitely not Svetlana_.

A shadow passed over her, blocking out a portion of the light. She knew that someone was standing just outside the clear plastic isolation tent that covered her, looking in.

"Sleeping peacefully," the voice said, again in Russian. This time the translation in her head came rather more quickly. "Amazing. I really thought she was a goner, like the others. Yet here she still is, and all but recovered it seems."

A second individual grunted. "Doesn't look any different." _Ramazan_.

There was a soft chuckle. "No. Of course not. I don't really think it was ever going to be that sort of transformation. Are the explosives set?"

"Yeah, everything's ready."

"And the Vissarion?"

Ramazan sounded slightly impatient. "His flight's been delayed as planned. He won't get accidently caught up in it."

"Good."

Sydney heard the isolation tent being unzipped and pulled back. She concentrated on keeping calm. "Give me a hand," the first voice said, much closer now. Still she could hear no sound from the rest of the isolation ward, and belatedly her brain filled in what the _phfft_ sound from earlier had been – a silenced handgun.

Everyone else had been murdered. Suddenly she was struggling to contain white-hot rage.

"Her heart rate has just picked up," Ramazan observed.

"Dreaming. Look at the eye movement there. She's still feverish. It will be a while before she's fully recovered according to Dr. Markov." She could hear the shrug in the tone of voice.

"You're sure its okay to move her?" Ramazan sounded doubtful.

"Best do it now while she's still so weak, eh? Less chance of her giving us any trouble that way."

Ramazan made a noncommittal sound. 

_Weak?_ Sydney let her mind reach out to the rest of her body. Curious, she didn't feel particularly weak, or indeed when it came down to it, feverish. In fact, physically she felt almost rested, as if she had just had a nap rather spent the last several days on the edge of death.

"We can hardly leave her until the Vissarion returns, can we?" She felt the speaker leaning over her, disconnecting the drip. Then she felt the restraints around her waist being unbuckled. "Give me a hand here."

Ramazan was now leaning over her too, unbuckling her ankle restraints as the other man freed her wrists. She would only get one chance at this she knew.

"Get her legs. Help me shift her into the chair." The speaker leant close again. She could smell his sweat and cheap, unpleasantly artificial smelling aftershave with an almost preternatural sharpness.

Abruptly she snapped her head forward, catching the man full in the face with her forehead. His nose crunched and she heard him cry out. 

Simultaneously she kicked out with both feet, catching Ramazan in the chest. He went over onto his backside with a surprised wail. Not pausing she snapped an open-handed punch up at the man she'd just head-butted, then swung around, off the gurney she lay on. Her knees caught him hard in the chest.

He fell onto his back, and she dropped her full weight into his midriff, then grabbed him by the hair and slammed the back of his head twice against the floor to render him unconscious.

She looked back at Ramazan, who was fumbling to free his pistol from his belt. As he tried to aim it at her she ran forward and kicked his wrist as if she was punting a football.

There was a sharp crack as ulna and radius bones snapped from the impact, and Ramazan screamed. Sydney chased after the gun as it went flying.

As she snatched it up the pistol she stopped short, staring at the contents of one of the other beds in horror. The man's face was swollen and black – a single gigantic bruise. A crust of dried blood and mucus surrounded a mouth stretched in a perpetual silent scream, and the bed sheets were befouled by more blood and fluids she didn't care to think about too hard. The pair of bullet holes in the man's chest looked like they had come as a relief.

She looked back at Ramazan. Barely contained fury simmered inside her.

He'd propped himself up and was cradling what appeared to be a radio remote control unit in his good hand. She pointed the gun at his chest.

"Don't do anything hasty Svetlana. I was only following orders. There's a lot you don't understand." A bead of sweat trickled down the side of his face.

"Svetlana?" She spoke the next words in clearly enunciated American-accented English. "Are you sure about that?"

He stared at her – swallowed heavily as he caught the look in her eyes. "Nevertheless . . .." His tongue flicked out briefly to moisten his lips. "This remote will detonate approximately two hundred pounds of C4 explosive located at various key points around this facility. You, me, and about fifty others will be either blown up or buried alive. All I have to do is touch this button here and . . . boom."

"I don't think you're going to blow yourself up." She kept the gun trained on him.

"No? If it comes down to a choice of being shot by you or this . . .."

"I also don't think your bosses will be too pleased if you kill me either. I doubt they've gone to all this trouble for the good of their health."

"If I'm dead I don't care, do I?" He made a sharp gesture. "Now place the gun gently on the floor and slide it . . .."

While he was still talking she shot him in the wrist. The remote detonator fell from his grasp and bounced away across the hard tiled floor.

She moved carefully to retrieve it, not taking her eyes of Ramazan for even a second. He just blinked stupidly, gaping at the blood pumping from the new hole in his wrist. After a moment he tried clumsily to struggle back to his feet.

"Give me an excuse. Please." Her voice was cold. Hard.

He stopped, staring at her. "Look, I know you're angry, Svetlana. I don't know your real name, so I'll call you that okay? I'd be angry too if they did this to me. But think about this for moment. There's nowhere you can run to that they can't find you – you really think they'd let you out if there were any chance of you getting away from them?" 

She thought about the tracking device implanted in her side and shrugged. "Probably not."

He tried to use his broken arm to apply pressure to the bullet hole in his other wrist, face twisting as he gasped in agony. "And you're right of course, absolutely. They don't want to kill you. In fact they've got a lot invested in seeing you safe and sound. They're not monsters. They'll help you – treat you well. It's in their best interests. You have to realise that."

She nodded. 

He started to smile through the pain.  

Her next words made the smile freeze. "You know what Ramazan? I think I'll try running anyway. It'll be good exercise if nothing else." 

With that she turned and started to walk away, past the rows of corpses lying dead on their beds inside their respective isolation tents. She counted forty-six of them in all.

"Wait."

Despite her better judgment Sydney paused, looking back at him over her shoulder. "What?"

"You feel better, don't you? Well again, I mean."

"What do you care?" she asked suspiciously.

"For you? I'll be honest. Nothing really. I'm just trying to avert a disaster." His face looked grey and greasy as he continued to struggle to apply enough pressure to his wrist to staunch the bleeding. "The virus is still active inside you. You're not going to die from it, but you're a carrier. Know what that means?"

"Enlighten me."

"It means that if you walk out of that door, you risk infecting everyone you meet with the same thing that just killed all these poor bastards."

"You killed them. You shot them." The anger leaked out into her voice.

He grimaced, gasping in pain. Blood continued to ooze from the hole in his wrist. "They were dead anyway. It was mercy. You step out that door and thousands more will suffer because of you. Hundreds of thousands. You'll be a regular Typhoid Mary. You want that on your head?"

"If that's true," she said. "You and you're friend seem curiously unconcerned about getting infected yourself. No gloves or masks."

He nodded down towards to a gasmask hanging from his belt. His unconscious partner had one too.

"But you're not wearing it!"

He blinked at her. His mouth worked for a couple of seconds before he managed to produce a response. She could almost see his brain ticking over. "That's because we've received the counteragent."

"Right. The counteragent." Her voice was flat. "In which case killing all these people wasn't necessary, was it? You could have given them the counteragent too."

"We . . . we didn't have enough."

Sydney watched him. He was blinking rapidly. "For someone in this line of work you're not very good at lying, are you?" 

"I'm not . . .."

The anger flared again, white hot. There were forty-eight beds in the ward, and all of them except two were occupied by corpses. How many others had occupied them before these latest unfortunates? All for what? She could feel a vein in her temple throbbing. Her finger squeezed down on the pistol's trigger. Ramazan obviously saw this because he choked off on what he was saying, his eyes becoming huge saucers. She could see him hyperventilating, flinching back in anticipation of the bullet.

_No. No. I don't have to this_. He finger remained tight on the trigger, knuckle white. Finally she let out a breath. 

_No. I am not Anna._

Abruptly she turned away, back towards the door. It was an air lock type mechanism. She hit the control to open it.

"W-Wait!" Ramazan started again, voice shaky. "I-I'm telling the truth . . .."

_No, you're not_. She told herself that, but something still nagged at her and she hesitated mid stride. _What if . . .?_ With a small shake of her head, she pushed the thought away. _No, he's lying_. _I know he's lying. _

Everyone had lied to her.

With a deep breath she stepped outside, into the unknown.

* * *

Sydney stopped the jeep and looked back down the road at the mountain.

Escaping from the bunker had been surprisingly easy. Once outside the isolation ward the reason Ramazan and his partner had had gas masks was clear. There were uniformed bodies sprawled in the corridors, and a faintly unpleasant odour hanging on the air, slightly reminiscent of a chlorinated swimming pool.

Several of the bodies lay in puddles of bloody vomit. Others who'd managed to don gasmasks themselves before succumbing had been shot. If anyone in the facility had been left alive they'd obviously had other things on their minds than stopping her from leaving.

She'd found a uniform that was about the right size – though the boots were a bit too big – and exchanged it for the sterile blue hospital gown she'd been wearing up to then. What she could have really done with was a shower and a meal, but stopping hadn't seemed like such a good idea.

A storage shed had been easily broken into and she turned up a Kalashnikov assault rife, several spare clips and even a couple of grenades, as well as some more mundane supplies. _Always be prepared_. She could hear herself saying that, somewhere far back in her memories.

Briefly she wondered were she would go. She knew she was American. She suspected she was CIA, or had been once. Beyond that everything was still a thorny tangle, details lost or jumbled up with each other. 

Away from here. Out of Kyrgyzstan. Out of Russia. Find herself. Find Vaughn.

It sounded simple, and she half smiled, knowing that it would be anything but. She picked up the detonator from the seat beside her and sighed softly, thumb straying to the trigger. 

There might be people who were still alive in there. People she risked burying alive. Then she remembered the lines of tortured bodies in the isolation ward and her thoughts hardened. The Vissarion wasn't just going to stop. If she didn't press the trigger those beds would soon be occupied again. And again. And again. Until he finally found whatever the hell it was that he was looking for.

She closed her eyes, seeing the red sphere turning over slowly in her minds eye. _The battery, breeding the infection._ Where that knowledge came from she didn't know. It was just there. She saw it shattering, the water inside it spilling through the great cavern that contained it.

Opening her eyes again she pressed the trigger on the remote detonator. There was a low rumbling noise, like distant thunder.


	10. Theory of Flight

10. Theory of Flight.

"Tchéky. I didn't realise you'd been assigned to this team." Anna Espinosa's voice was a languid drawl.

The pair of them stood on the runway of a private airfield. The sky overhead was leaden and overcast, rain falling in steady sheets. Behind them a sleek looking Lear jet gleamed, white and silver, lit up by the runway lights.

"I thought I'd volunteer." His hands were thrust deep into the pockets of the long overcoat he wore, rain dripping down his face and plastering his hair flat to his head.

"Thanks, but I'll decline." Her eyes were as hard and empty as diamonds.

"I know her better than anyone. I should have been assigned to the team. Why don't you correct that oversight?"

Anna laughed. "Oh, priceless. You've fallen for her, haven't you? Don't bother denying it. I can see it in your eyes. Hear it in the desperation in your voice. I can't even begin to express just how funny that is. Mother _and_ daughter both."

He said nothing, simply holding her mocking gaze with his.

"And you _don't_ know her. Be honest with yourself, Tchéky. You know Svetlana. The fake plastic woman you tried to make. Spy Barbie. This is Sydney now, and I'm the only one of us who really knows her."

Again he refused to rise to her baiting. "They want her alive, Anna."

"And alive they shall have her."

Tchéky snorted. "The only thing you're ever good for is death."

Anna punched him in the stomach, so fast that he didn't even begin to react. The blow knocked the wind from his lungs, doubling him up. He collapsed onto his knees on the rain-drenched tarmac, gasping for breath

"Bye, bye Tchéky."

He heard her heels clicking as she walked away from him. All he could do was watch the back of her legs as she climbed up the steps into the plane.

* * *

The pay phone rang beside her.

Sydney stopped and stared at it, her heart thudding. She was walking through the main concourse of Bishkek airport. Her hair was died black and she'd used fake tan to darken her skin several shades. She'd also used make up as best she could to alter the lines and angles of her face, at least from a distance, and she was wearing thick black-framed glasses. She wasn't sure how much good any of it would do her though.

The phone kept on ringing. Someone pushed roughly past her, telling her brusquely to get out of the way. After a moment or two she resumed walking, leaving the phone alone.

Ten yards further along was another pay phone. As she drew level with it the phone behind her fell silent and this one started ringing instead.

Her pace quickened.

As she passed a third phone that started ringing too. She gave in and snatched it up, aware that people were starting to stare at her. "What do you want?" she snapped.

"Svetlana. Thank god." The voice was Tchéky's. She recognised it instantly. "Svetlana, wait. Please. Don't hang up. I want to help you."

Indecision warred within her. "My name is not Svetlana," she finally answered him, clearly and deliberately in English.

There was a pause from the other end of the line, followed by a sigh. "No. No it's not."

"If you really want to help me you'll start by using my real name."

Another period of hesitation. "Sydney. Sydney Bristow."

"You lied to me!" she was speaking Russian again, pent up emotion breaking loose in a rush. "You stole my life. You raped my mind. You used me. You pretended you were my friend, and you told me lie after lie after lie!"

"I . . . I would apologise, but it means nothing does it? It's not something I can make right with an apology."

"You can't make it right full stop!"

She heard him sigh again. "I-I just wanted to warn you. They've sent Anna after you. To bring you back."

A quick flash.

It was Belgrade. A flat in a nondescript tenement block, seated at a kitchen table over breakfast. She finished off her cup of coffee and stood up, extending her hand to the man seated across from her. "Thank you for your time Mr. Jugovic."

He smiled, standing up too and shaking the proffered hand. "A sincere pleasure Miss Bristow . . ."

Then his head exploded. 

She was aware of the glass from the window cascading across them both as time seemed to slow down a thousand fold. Blood and brain tissue had splattered across her face from an exit wound the size of a teacup.

As she gasped in shock, he toppled over sideways . . .

"I can take care of Anna," she answered Tchéky grimly.

There was a pause. "Perhaps. But even if you do there will be others. And they'll keep on coming till they get you. You have a tracking device . . .."

"I know," she said curtly. "Implanted in my side. The scar."

"You know," he echoed. "Look, Svet . . . Sydney. I know you have absolutely no reason at all to trust me, but I can help you get away from them. If we meet . . .."

"Do you take me for a complete idiot, Tchéky?" she interrupted him. "If we meet you'll turn me in. We both know that . . .."

"No. I won't." He sighed – started talking quickly. "But you're not going to believe me and you're going to hang-up in a moment, aren't you? Look, have you remembered how to contact the CIA? The location of their nearest safehouse? Who to contact about arranging papers . . .?"

"Why the hell do you even care?"

"Because . . . because . . .. Oh what the hell. I'm not going to persuade you whatever I say, am I? Three hours from now I'll be in . . .." she listened to what he said despite herself. "I'll be there whatever. On my own. You'll either be there too and accept the help I can give you, or you won't be. Keep on the move Sydney. They're closing in on you fast . . .."

She hung up. For a moment she bowed her head, eyes closed, breathing heavily. Then she looked up again and resumed walking.

* * *

Tchéky jolted hard as the cell phone started to ring almost the same instant that Sydney was disconnected. For a moment he stared at it as if it was a poisonous insect crawled up onto his hand. Then, finally, he answered. "Romatsev."

"I've received information I find disturbing Agent Romatsev," the distorted voice began with no preamble.

"Oh? How so?" Tchéky could feel himself sweating all of a sudden.

"You were supposed to meet with Director Karpuchin an hour ago. Did that slip your mind?"

"Something cropped up. Something important."

"Only Director Karpuchin was of the opinion that you might have gone after our missing asset in an unauthorised capacity," the voice continued as if he hadn't said anything.

"Really?" Tchéky tried to keep his voice impassive. "Well I'm not sure where that idea came from."

"I've spoken to Anna too," the voice continued. "She informed me of your meeting, and her concerns that you would interfere with her recovery operation once she rebuffed you."

Tchéky grimaced. "I should be part of the recovery team. I've come to know the asset better than anyone, and I believe I have the best chance of bringing a non-violent resolution to this situation."

"Our analysts disagree with that assessment. For one thing, they believe that she is likely to see your actions as a particularly personal betrayal, and your presence is just as likely to inflame matters as help the situation."

"For one thing?"

"For one thing," the voice agreed. 

"Your analysts hardly have a spotless record in this do they? I don't recall that they foresaw her breaking her conditioning and fleeing. Or is that something else you didn't think I needed to know?"

"Now I understand your frustrations Agent Romatsev," the voice went on blithely. "But I did warn you about developing emotional attachments. I'm ordering you to return to headquarters and report to Director Karpuchin. Non-compliance will be taken as sign that you have gone rogue, and sanctions will be invoked accordingly."

"Fine." Tchéky hung up. He realised he was shaking.

For a moment he stared at the phone, wondering how it had come to this. He was staring into the abyss, but he could still step back. That chance was still there . . ..

The phone started ringing again. He switched it off. Then he wound the car window down and threw the phone out.

He'd made his choice. For once he would do something right. Even if it killed him.

* * *

Sydney stepped inside the first-aid room, grabbing a chair and forcing its back up beneath the door handle to keep any unwanted intrusions out.

Quickly she moved to the glass-fronted cabinets on the other side of the room, rifling through them systematically until she had turned up everything that she would need. Then she laid it all out on the table in the room's centre.

Not pausing – in case her courage deserted her if she actually stopped and thought about what she was doing – she stripped her top off. Expression fixed with concentration, she took a pencil and wrapped it up in several layers of gauze bandage. Something to bite down on in case the pain became too much. 

Taking the penknife from her pocket, she proceeded to disinfect the blade. While doing so she noticed that her hands were shaking and took a deep breath – tried to calm herself. Unsteady hands would be very bad right now.

Once that was done, she applied more of the antiseptic to the skin around the scar on her right side. Almost as an afterthought, she undid the top couple of buttons of her jeans and folded a white hand-towel into the waistband. To catch the blood.

Holding the gauze wrapped pencil between her teeth, she probed at the scar with her fingertips until she had located the slight hardness that indicated where the implant was. The knife blade hovered millimetres above her skin as she struggled to stop herself tensing up. Tensing was absolutely the worst thing she could do, increasing the blood flow to the area and making the pain of cutting more severe. 

Deep, calming breaths. She pressed the knife in, smooth and firm.

She bit down hard on the pencil, a low sobbing moan welling up from the back of her throat. Blood ran from the wound in a steady steam. She forced herself to push deeper and slid the knife along, groaning, her eyes watering as the scar slowly unzipped.

She had to stop briefly as the pain grew too much for her, hyperventilating. The penknife was far from the ideal tool for the job, not nearly as sharp as a scalpel would have been. And raw, living flesh was surprisingly tough and unyielding to saw through.

She tried reaching with her fingertips into the wound, but it wasn't wide enough yet. She could feel the plastic casing of the tracking device, hard and slippery, but she couldn't gain enough purchase. The noise coming from her throat was reminiscent of a kettle boiling.

Briefly leaning against the table, blood falling in coin-sized spatters across the floor, she steeled herself to resume cutting. Sawing at the flesh that had healed up round the tracking device she bit down so hard on the pencil that it broke in too. Blood streamed over her hand making the grip on the knife slippery.

Finally she laid the knife aside, sobbing, and tried again to pull the tracking device out. Her grip was better this time, but her blood-slick fingers kept sliding on the plastic casing. Crying out – in frustration as much as anything – she dug her nails in and yanked hard.

Briefly the pain flared so intensely that her vision redded out entirely. Then the tracking device popped free, flying from her grasp and bouncing away across the floor leaving a long bloody smear behind it.

She dropped onto her haunches, panting. She felt dizzy and light-headed, though she knew it couldn't be from blood loss yet. More likely it was the onset of shock. The urge to lie down on the floor and curl up into a protective ball was a powerful one, but she fought it off, forcing herself to stand up again. She could feel the muscles in the backs of her thighs trembling.

The job was only half done. She still had to patch herself up.

She daubed the edges of the wound with more antiseptic, hissing through her teeth at the vicious stinging this caused. Then, hands shaking, she picked up a tube of superglue she'd bought from an airport shop. 

She applied the glue as carefully as she could manage to the hole's raw edges and pressed them together, her face clenching tight. Raw sobbing gasps sawed through her, but when she eventually took her hands away the wound stayed shut.

As quickly as she could manage she crossed over to the sink, every movement tugging painfully at her side. There she washed away the blood. 

There was a lot of it. More than she'd thought there would be. The white towel was almost completely red, and it had seeped through to stain the waistband of her jeans regardless of her efforts. It had also gotten under her fingernails in thick red crescents, and she scrubbed at her hands until they were almost raw in an effort to get all of it off.

When that was finished she picked up a small aerosol can from the table, spraying clear antiseptic sealant gel over the wound. Finally she used bandages to tightly wrap the injury, before pulling her top back on.

She looked at her reflection in the mirror. It wasn't good. She looked sickly through the fake tan – decidedly ill. She could see herself trembling still.

More deep breaths, though every one of them pulled painfully at her side. Slowly her head stopped spinning and her equilibrium began to return. 

Her eyes went to where the tracking device had landed. She walked over to it and was about to crush it beneath the sole of her shoe, but something made hesitate. Instead she bent over gingerly and picked it up

Perhaps there was another use for it.

* * *

Tchéky sat alone on the park bench and pretended to read the newspaper. He'd been sitting there for over half an hour now, and he was fairly certain he was going to be sitting there alone for the next three and a half hours too, all to no avail.

She wasn't going to come. Of course she wasn't. It was already fifteen minutes after the appointed hour, but he had no intention of leaving until all hope of her showing up was gone.

He couldn't explain the compulsion. She wasn't going to thank him even if she did show. Hell, he'd be lucky if she didn't try to kill him. He turned the page of the newspaper. He'd been staring at it for at least ten minutes and hadn't managed to take any of it in yet.

The bag resting on the seat beside him gave an electronic beep. He looked around, startled.

There was someone sitting next to him. A woman. He hadn't seen her approach and it took several long seconds for him to see Sydney in her.

"You came alone." Her voice was cool and he was unable to read any emotion from it.

"Yes. Of course I did. I said I would."

"No. That was a statement. I spent the last hour checking to make sure."

"Oh?"

"So is that the first time you've been honest with me?"

He started to protest reflexively, but then sighed. "That's fair I suppose. I didn't really expect you to show up."

She regarded him expressionlessly. "You said you could help. Right now I could use help. It would be . . . stupid to let my emotions interfere."

The way she said it he wasn't sure he believed her. He went on anyway. "The bag between us. It contains papers, $10,000 US dollars cash, a change of clothes, plus a firearm and assorted other op tech you're familiar with the use off."

She nodded.

"The papers are good for about two days. My superiors may be able to track the source I used to get them given time, so I wouldn't rely on them any longer than that if you can avoid it."

"Why?" she asked after a short period of silence.

He blinked, then realised that she didn't mean the papers. "I . . . What they did to you in Kyrgyzstan opened my eyes. It crossed a line where I wasn't willing to follow."

"But everything up to then was fine with you?" For the first time emotion – anger – leaked out into her voice. 

To Tchéky it almost came as a relief. Her calmness up to that point had been disturbing. "I've never claimed any great moral rectitude. Most of the time I just do the job in front of me."

She snorted.

"I – I liked you as a person. Believe that or not. It was no longer an academic exercise involving somebody I didn't know and didn't care anything about."

She opened her mouth to say something, but then shut it again. He saw more anger flash in her eyes, but she just looked away from him. Silence lingered uncomfortably.

He cleared his throat. "I knew your mother, you know. Used to work for her."

Sydney looked at him again. "Laura Bristow?"

"Irina Derevko."

She blinked a few times – eventually nodded. "You know, considering what I'm starting to get back up here that admission is not likely to make me any more inclined to trust you."

"I know," he said quietly. "How are the memories? It hasn't all come back yet?"

"I know my name now. I know a few other things. Everything else is one big tangled up jumble of images. It's almost worse than having no memories at all. It feels like a thousand voices all trying to make themselves heard at once. I can't find any of the details I most need right now amid all the other mess."

"But the conditioning is broken. It will all sort itself out naturally over the next few days. The damage won't be permanent."

"You can't know that." Again there was that flash of anger, swiftly suppressed.

He changed the subject – back to business. "I'd advise against flying straight to America. They'll be watching for that. Go to a third intermediate country first."

"I know what I'm doing."

"Yeah, I guess you do." He hesitated briefly. "In the bag there are contact details for a surgeon I know. Your absolute first priority must to get the tracking device out. You've got no chance otherwise."

"I'm not an idiot Tchéky."

"I managed to spoof the satellite signal, so they've hopefully been chasing shadows for the last few hours. That won't last. They've probably corrected my hack already, and I have no idea how much of a head start you have. Assume that it's not much."

She nodded. After another lengthy silence she said simply: "I should go."

"Yes." There was so much he wanted to say, but he knew that none of it would be welcomed. In the end he settled for: "Safe journey."

"Thank you." It was almost inaudible.

As she stood up, slinging the bag over one shoulder, he noticed her wince. He laid the newspaper down on the bench beside him, sitting back and closing his eyes. For some reason he didn't want to watch her as she walked away, out of his life forever.

He didn't hear footsteps. 

"They're going to kill you, aren't they?" Her voice still came from close by.

"If they catch me," he agreed, not bothering to open his eyes.

This time he did hear footsteps. Part of him wanted suddenly to cry.

"Tchéky." 

The unexpectedness of hearing her voice again made him jolt. Almost involuntarily he opened his eyes and looked at her. She had stopped about fifteen yards away and was facing him.

"Your left jacket pocket."

His eyes widened as he reached into it and felt the small, hard object that definitely hadn't been in there originally. He blinked at it stupidly as he pulled it out. The tracking device. "How . . .?" he started.

"I cut it out with a penknife and brought it here in a lead lined box to mask the signal. I was going to use you as a decoy." She shrugged. "But that . . . doesn't really seem fair now. Smash it. Get out of here before they come."

Tchéky continued to stare at the tracking device sat in the centre of his palm. Small and gleaming. He nodded distractedly. "Yeah. Yeah, I'll do that."

He heard her start walking again. This time she didn't stop.

* * *

"We've got her. The warehouse across the street. She's stopped moving."

Anna watched the monitor screen, already having reached that conclusion. "Move alpha team into position and block off all exits," she ordered. A smile touched her lips as she looked at the satellite image showing the heat signature of a single person superimposed with the signal from the tracking device. _Got you_.

About thirty seconds later her comm crackled. "Alpha team in position. Awaiting instructions."

"Hold fast, team leader. Don't let anybody past you." Then she took of her headset and stood up, looking round at the six heavily-armed men dressed in assault gear who shared the back of the van with her.

"Okay, let's move in."

* * *

"There's nowhere to run Sydney." Anna's voice echoed through the warehouse. She had to break off, stifling a coughing fit as the acrid black smoke hanging in the air caught the back of her throat. Quickly she moved from her position, though the crackling flames were probably enough to cover the sound.

Still, she'd already seen all too clearly that it didn't do to take unnecessary chances. 

She wiped at the blood oozing slowly down the side of her face from a tear in her scalp. Her foot nudged against something and she looked down. It was a severed hand. Part of one of her team who'd been blown up when they came in through the side entrance. She kicked it away almost absently.

The sound of footsteps came from about ten yards to her left, scurrying away rapidly. She whirled, but didn't catch more than a fleeting flash of movement.

"It doesn't have to be this way Sydney. I don't want to hurt you." Anna knew that her words were unlikely to draw a response from her target, but that wasn't their primary purpose. They might just distract Sydney long enough to allow the remainder of her team to get the drop on her. And there was also the fact that most of her surviving team members were dazed, wounded and in shock, their comms system jammed from an unknown source, and likely in the mood to fire on the first thing they saw moving. She didn't want that first thing to be her.

Slightly to her surprise it worked. Suddenly from somewhere close up ahead of her came the sound of a scuffle. She moved quickly to close.

"Shit, it's not her . . .." The voice was cut off abruptly by a sound she recognised instantly as a suppressed pistol shot. A fraction of a second later there was a heavy thud.

Anna didn't hesitate, eyes fastening on a vague silhouette in the gloom and rushing up behind it. It was too big to be Sydney. In fact it was distinctly male. She registered these facts even as she was driving the butt of her tranq gun into the target's neck.

He fell to his hands and knees, groaning, the pistol flying from his grasp and sliding away beneath one of the shelves. She kicked him viciously in the ribcage, laying him flat, then pulled him up by the hair to get a look at his face. 

"Tchéky!" She let him drop again in disgust, administering another kick to the ribs for good measure.

"Hello Anna," he gasped. "Lovely to see you again."

Her face twisted and she planted a floor into the small of his back, pressing him flat to the floor again. "Where is she?"

"She?"

Anna shifted her foot so that it was pressed against the back of his elbow. Then she grabbed hold of his hand and yanked back on it. There was a rather distressing sounding pop as the elbow joint dislocated and Tchéky screamed rawly. "Sydney. That she. I know she's here somewhere."

Tchéky just laughed raggedly.

Anna grimaced, straightening. "Move to cover the exits. Now!" she called out to the remainder of her team.

After a moment there came the sound of two sets of footsteps, moving to obey. Tchéky chuckled again, breath sawing in agony. "Your men seem somewhat depleted Anna."

She planted her foot against his other elbow. "Do I have to ask you again?"

"You know, sometimes a please works wonders." She grabbed hold of his wrist; started to pull. "Okay, okay!" he yelped. "The back pocket of my jeans."

A sudden unpleasant thought occurred to Anna – one she'd been skirting round for the last few seconds. The satellite surveillance of the warehouse had shown up only one person inside. One person matching up exactly to the tracking device's signal. "You move a muscle and I kill you," she warned him.

Inside Tchéky's back pocket was a small, hard, plastic-coated object. She pulled it out and looked at it for several seconds, before lashing out and kicking him the ribcage again. "Where the hell is she?"

He was silent.

"You have to have met her to get this. Tell me where she is." She let go of him and took a step back, her thoughts racing. _She couldn't have lost again . . ._

Tchéky rolled over onto his back. His face was taut with pain, slick with sweat. "She didn't tell me. I didn't ask. It's not like we're best palls or anything Anna."

"Why are you doing this? She's not going to thank you for it. She's not even going to give it a second thought." Anna's voice contained barely suppressed fury. "Why throw your life away for her?"

He snorted. "You know Anna, for someone with such a high IQ you're quite possibly the thickest person I've ever met."

She kicked him again, doubling him up. "Whereabouts did you meet with her?"

"D'you know where . . . I'd start . . . looking for her, Anna . . . if I were you?" His voice came brokenly between gulping intakes of breath.

"Where?"

"Los Angeles." He gave a choking laugh.

She aimed another kick at his ribs, but this time he was expecting it, managing to twist and catch her leg with his good arm. Then he swung round, sweeping her legs out from under her.

They came to their feet together. 

Tchéky snapped a fist into her face, knocking her head back and bloodying her nose. Anna returned with a violent flurry of kicks that blasted through his weakened guard and sent him crashing into the shelf behind him. He reached above his head with his good hand and pulled down the first thing that came within his reach – a tool box – aiming it at Anna's head.

She crossed her arms in front of her face and the toolbox bounced off, clanging against the floor and spilling its contents in a ringing cascade. In the moment of distraction it caused Tchéky kicked her hard in the midriff.

She didn't seem to feel it, coming straight at him without so much as a pause, ducking as he tried to swing at her and punching him viciously in the side. As breath hissed between his teeth, she grabbed his injured arm and yanked down hard, making him shriek in pain. Then she raked her foot down the back of his calf, dropping him to his knees.

Behind him now, Anna wrapped one arm around his throat in a chokehold, the other hooking over the top of his head and yanking it sideways.

Tchéky struggled in vain to break her grip, driving an elbow back into her stomach as his face slowly went purple. He groped with one hand across the floor, fingers closing over the handle of a screwdriver as she continued to squeeze tight, one of her knees pressing into his back now to increase her leverage.

Mouth working desperately for air, he drove the screwdriver as hard as he could manage, deep into her thigh. Her leg gave way dropping her down to one knee behind him, but the pressure on his throat only slackened slightly. 

Her face twisted in a snarl as he groped upwards, trying to claw at her eyes. With every ounce of strength she could muster she wrenched her arms violently to one side, twisting his head sharply with them. Bone cracked like a pistol shot.

Releasing her grip on him, he fell face forward onto the warehouse floor and lay unmoving.

She stood up, breathing heavily, the screwdriver still embedded in her thigh. Grimacing, she spat on him contemptuously.

* * *

Sydney walked slowly through the night lit streets of downtown Shanghai, largely ignored by the tide of people ebbing and flowing around her.

She'd taken Tchéky's advice about not trying to fly directly to the US, though she couldn't have explained why she had chosen here as a location. It didn't hold any significance as far as she could tell in the crazy tangle of disjointed memories spinning inside her head. Perhaps that in itself had been reason enough.

Aeroflot, flight number 47. It had simply been the first one on the board to catch her eye.

As she walked an incredible, deep-seated weariness crept up on her. She hadn't been able to sleep on the flight. In fact she hadn't slept more than about four hours in the four days since she'd escaped from the Vissarion's bunker in Kyrgyzstan. Now, suddenly, it seemed to catch up with her all at once.

Neon lights blurred and danced before her vision. Although there were people all around her she felt detached and apart from it all. Even the noises of the street seemed somehow distant and removed from her. 

Part of her just wanted to sit down where she was in the middle of the street and cry. A larger part of her simply wanted to go home, if there was such a place anymore. She forced herself to keep on walking, towards her hotel a couple of blocks away.

Then she stopped abruptly, blinking. 

For a short while she wasn't sure why, but then she realised it was the face of the woman she'd just walked past. A woman of Caucasian origin, late thirties to early forties, a fraction plump and matronly looking. Nothing out of the ordinary that should stick in the mind or attract attention.

Except it was the same face as the woman she had seen tailing her in a St. Petersburg marketplace. The hair and clothes were different but the face was identical

Something inside her lurched. She tried to keep calm but everything around her seemed to be spiralling out of control. Suddenly she could feel her heart pounding, adrenaline pumping through her veins, nerve endings twitching. She glanced around and thought she saw the second tail from the St. Petersburg marketplace – the man with the leather jacket and moustache – looking straight at her from a distance of less than ten yards away.

Reflex overrode thought and she broke into a run, sprinting down the nearest gap between two buildings.

The alleyways and narrow back streets were like a maze and she chose her direction almost at random, her only thought to run – to put as much distance between her and her pursuers as she could. Seconds became minutes, and the air started to burn in her lungs, sharp pain tearing incessantly at her right side. She forced onwards regardless, legs pumping hard.

Eventually – after how long she had no idea – she stopped, panting for breath. She leant against a wall and wiped a hand across her brow. Inwardly she cursed herself for her overreaction – struggled to reassert control over herself. The pain in her side made it feel like a knife had been plunged in and was being twisted repeatedly back and forth.

She had no clue as to where she was anymore and looked around cautiously. Another narrow alleyway, indistinguishable to half a dozen others she had ran through. Boxes and junk were piled high on both sides, further narrowing it. She looked and listened hard, but there was no sign that she had been pursued.

Light and noise came from somewhere up ahead of her. After she'd got her breath back somewhat she started walking cautiously towards it.

Someone was standing at the head of the alleyway, backlit by streetlights.

She blinked. 

It was a very familiar someone. He wasn't tall – about the same height she was – and he looked to be somewhere in his fifties with close-cropped grey hair and a heavily stubbled jaw. His suit was casual but expensive and a half smile touched his lips as he looked at her.

"Sloane!" Her shout was equal parts shock and outrage. She reached for her handgun. "What the hell have you done to me you son of a bitch?"

"Hello Sydney," he said calmly. "It's good to see you again."

Her face twisted into a snarl and she aimed the gun at the centre of his chest.

He held up his hands. "Please Sydney. I know you're confused right now, and angry, but for once I'm not the cause of your woes."

"Why the hell would I believe a single word you say? Why shouldn't I just shoot you right now?"

"What can I say Sydney? I know you'll find this difficult to believe, but right now I'm not your enemy. I'm here to help you."

"Help me?" Her voice was incredulous. "You help me?"

She heard a stealthy footstep directly behind her and whirled. There was a soft whooshing sound and something hit her in the left shoulder.

She looked down and saw a tranq dart, protruding from her jacket. Suddenly everything was spinning, her vision blurring, and the ground beneath her swaying like a ship in a violent storm. She span back towards Sloane, but suddenly there were six of him, gyrating and spinning crazily. The look of concern for her on his face made her blood boil . . .

Suddenly everything seemed to be rushing away from her down a long black tunnel. She aimed at one of the rapidly dwindling Sloanes and pulled the trigger. The bullet seemed to pass straight through his face, but it didn't even manage to alter his infuriating expression. She fired again, trying another face this time, though the result was no better than before. Something hit her in the back. All control over her legs went and she toppled over, face forwards. Her gun was suddenly no longer in her grasp.

Vaguely, miles away, she was away of two people standing over her. "Was that really necessary?" she was dimly aware of Sloane asking.

"Normally one dart does the job straight away, sir" a second voice said. "I don't know what happened . . .."

Consciousness slipped away in a tide of darkness.

* * *

Arvin Sloane sat with Sydney's head cradled on his lap. He gently stroked her hair.

"I wish things could be different between us. I wish we could go back and all the hate and betrayal could be expunged." He sighed to himself, twining a strand of her hair around his finger.

After a moment or two he gave a soft little laugh. "I spent so much time looking for you, trying to track you down, then finding a way to extract you. You hardly made it easy for me, you know?" A wry sounding chuckle. "I should have trusted you, shouldn't I? I should have known that you'd find a way to break your conditioning and extract yourself. I'm so proud of you, you know. I hope one day you'll let me say that to you for real."

For a time he fell silent again, continuing to stroke her hair.

"If I could Sydney, I'd let you return to your real life, away from all this. I know that is all you really want." For a moment or two he bowed his head, closing his eyes, his expression looking pained.

Then he went on. "But there is one more thing that I need you to do for me, Sydney. Just one, very important thing. Then my days of using you are over for good, I promise."

THE END


End file.
